


I’ll Stay Out of Your Hair

by gubiegubes



Category: Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018)
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, F/M, M/M, Problematic slow burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-22
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2019-11-27 12:22:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 32,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18194543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gubiegubes/pseuds/gubiegubes
Summary: Peter’s spending too much time in Miles’ universe, and everyone knows it.





	1. Chapter 1

“Mary Jane,” Peter tells her over the appetizer, “I’ve missed you so, so much.”  
  
Mary Jane smiles at him, but her lips are pulled in a bit tight. Peter knows what she’s thinking: _You’re not him. You don’t know me._ And it’s true; he’s not, and he doesn’t. He’s older, a little softer around the edges some places, a little rougher around the others. Miles showed him the videos of Dead Peter. He doesn’t have that same twinkle in the eye that Dead Peter has—had. And Alive Peter feels the pressure. He’s not even in his own goddamn universe. It’s like he’s some sort of bargain bin replacement version of Dead Peter.  
  
He orders another whiskey and Diet Coke. Thankfully, she orders another, too.  
  
They’re both drunk enough at the end of it that Peter’s almost fooled himself into thinking that this is just a date. A date like the ones he used to have with his MJ, before they grew apart. This MJ’s heart isn’t so hardened, yet. This MJ loved one Peter. Maybe she can love another.

She doesn’t kiss him, though. Peter leans in and it’s awkward. Mary Jane leans to the side, and he gets her cheek. Peter gets it. Her smile is warmer when she enters her apartment to look back at him.  
  
Peter wishes her good night and walks until he can’t see her door or windows anymore. He then webs himself up the side of a building to ruminate.  
  
He doesn’t want to go back home. Whatever home is, anyway. Not much more than a collection of someone else’s memories. Aunt May is letting him stay in one of the guest rooms upstairs. Peter was terrified she was going to offer him Dead Peter’s old room. She didn’t. Later, he got a glimpse of Dead Peter’s old room and okay, that room is dusted, more clean than his room has ever been.  
  
It’s nice, though. Aunt May cooks for him; he hasn’t had home-cooked food in years. Years. Miles promised him at some point that he’d bring over his mother’s cooking, but he hasn’t yet. Little bastard.  
  
Peter groans, scrubbing his face with his palms. Even literal lightyears away, he can’t escape what he is: a shittier version of himself.  
  
After a while, he crawls up the wall of Aunt May’s house, careful not to make much noise. He’s drunk. His grip slips on the windowsill and he loudly scrabbles against the ridged  A light turns on and the adrenaline zips him up and into his room.  
  
He’s changing frantically when he hears Aunt May call out, voice muffled down the hall behind the door, “Peter?”  
  
“Yeah Aunt May,” Peter shouts back, slipping into some newer sweats she bought him the other day. She’d forced him to throw out all his old clothes a while ago. “It’s just me. Sorry.”  
  
“Scared me,” he hears Aunt May mutter. He then hears her footsteps shuffle back down the hall. The latch of her door shuts with a loud click, and Peter lets a tired breath go. He hitches the next one when he hears scrabbling, the same type of scrabbling, but lighter. Spidey-sense tells him it’s fine.  
  
He leans out his window and hisses, “can you please try to keep it down? You sound like a giant rat.”  
  
“Oh, I heard you earlier,” Miles says, one leg neatly hooking over the windowsill. Peter moves aside and Miles hoists himself over easily, sneakers muffled against the carpet. “Trust me. You sounded a lot worse than a rat.”  
  
“Well at least she knows that noise is me,” Peter hisses, sliding his window shut, “Christ, why do I feel like I’m in high school? I didn’t even have boys coming through my window in high school.”  
  
“Don’t be weird, bro,” Miles says, shrugging off his hoodie, “I just came to play video games. Check out what I got.”  
  
He brandishes a Switch in one hand, and a copy of Super Smash Bros. in the other. Only it’s not the Smash Peter knows. This Smash is different; newer. New characters of Nintendo lore Peter always dreamed about playing. There’s even—  
  
“Spider-Man?”  
  
“Yeah,” Miles says, “he’s in like, every fighting game. It’s some sort of public nod, you know? They really respected the guy.”  
  
“Uh-huh,” Peter says slowly. He rubs his chin as he studies the cover. The Spider-Man in the corner watches him with large, mirthful white eyes, body contorted into a leaping pose.  
  
“They don’t do that where you’re from, huh,” Miles says, and Peter glances back up at him.  
  
“Uhh... no. I mean, I’m in some games. But I’m not in fucking Smash Bros.” There’s a reason he’s been cooping himself up in this universe, beyond Mary Jane. There are enough superheroes in his own timeline that are far more... everything. Way more games. Way bigger movies. More advertising. More marketing. Better PR. Better press. More muscles. More handsome. More pretty; more hot. The list goes on, and on, and on—  
  
“Hey.” Miles plucks the game out of his hand. “It’s not that deep, man. It’s Smash.”  
  
He’s already set up the Switch—Peter wonders why he even bothered to bring the game box. He tosses Peter a controller, then hops up on Peter’s bed, scooting back.  
  
It turns out that scrabbling is the least Aunt May has to worry about; Peter forgot how much he likes to yell. It’s more like the yelling is yanked out of him, especially when he’s still a bit drunk. Miles is, of course and unfairly so, much better than him. Peter has to quickly yank back the controller with his web every time he flings it away in frustration.  
  
He doesn’t hear the knocking at first, but the Spidey-sense kicks in — to no avail. What’s Peter gonna do, leap out of the way of Aunt May opening the door with such a disappointed expression on her face?  
  
“Peter.” Aunt May opens the door, and sounds as tired as she looks. “Let’s be reasonable, here. I know you’re an adult, I know you’re used to a certain lifestyle—who were you talking to?”  
  
Peter stares at her, then looks behind him to see empty space. His confusion must read well enough, because Aunt May just sighs.  
  
“Can’t you wait to play those games after the sun’s up? Just—Peter, I would appreciate it if you were more considerate about these things.”  
  
“I'm really sorry, Aunt May,” Peter says, sheepish. It only occurs to him then that the conversation would be going a bit differently if Miles didn’t manage to make himself blink invisible. It’s pretty weird for them to be hanging out this late. Not to them—Miles knows he can trust Peter, hell, he’s a lot smarter than Peter, anyway—but to any other unfamiliar outlooker... Though Aunt May would understand the mentor aspect, she’s always been very passionate about Miles’ education.  
  
“Okay,” Aunt May says, “goodnight for real, Peter.”  
  
“Goodnight,” Peter says, feeling like a kid.  
  
She shuts the door, and Miles pops back into view.  
“You’re getting really good at that,” Peter tells him, and Miles beams.  
  
Five minutes into another game, and Peter finally wins.

“Fuck yeah—“ Peter shouts, the glory getting to his head. Miles’ hand clamps over his mouth with a surprising strength that pushes Peter down into the bed and gets him quiet.  
  
“Dude, keep it down,” Miles says, his voice low, “let Aunt May sleep, or I’m leaving.”  
  
“Don’t you have school in the morning?” Peter asks against his palm, making it wet. He raises one eyebrow in what he knows is perfect, smug question. He’s practiced it enough in the mirror.  
“Man, fuck school.” Miles waves a dismissive hand, and his swearing always makes Peter chuckle. It’s adorable. Miles removes his hand and wipes it against his sweats, nose wrinkling. “They don’t teach me shit that actually keeps me alive. I got real things to do, and all school does is keep me from sleeping!”  
  
“You guys don’t have Spider-Man college programs?” Peter jokes. “You’d think the Late Mr. Parker would have taken the initiative.”  
  
“I mean, he donated like, three million dollars to public education in—“  
  
“Oh my god. Stop. I was being sarcastic!”  
  
“You’re so salty, man,” Miles laughs, and pushes Peter’s leg with his foot, “chill. I’m not judging you.”  
  
“Judging me for what,” Peter grumbles, pushing Miles’ leg back with his own foot in turn. They go back and forth for a bit, the two of them getting more and more heated about it until they’re practically kicking each other. Peter remembers Aunt May and stops the both of them, stilling Miles’ skinny calves with his own. Even touching someone like this is pretty foreign to Peter, nowadays. The thought comes to mind, unbidden. Miles would definitely judge him for that. It’s pathetic.  
  
“I guess I should go,” Miles sighs, falling back onto the bed, legs still trapped between Peter’s, “I got _school in the morning._ ” He mimics Peter.  
  
“I’m proud of you for being so responsible after all,” Peter coos, but he means it.  
  
Miles rolls his eyes. “Thought there’d be more shit to do tonight.”  
  
“Gotta leave some work to the police,” Peter says, shifting to lie on his side. He shrugs one shoulder. Miles detangles their legs and slides off the bed, slipping his hoodie back on.  
  
“You can hold onto the Switch,” he tells Peter, zipping his hoodie up and pulling the hood over his head. “Just don’t break any of my controllers, or you’re paying for it.”  
  
“I don’t have a job,” Peter says automatically.  
  
“I don’t care,” Miles retorts, sliding the window back up. He winks at Peter, that little shit, and, like quicksilver, he’s slipped out and gone.  
  
Peter stares at the starry sky left bare through the open window to him, obscured only by trees and a telephone pole.  
  
This is the real reason, he thinks. Not escapism. Not even sweet, beautiful Mary Jane. This is why he should be here. Dead Peter made a promise to Miles. It’s a promise this Peter would have made, too, if he were Dead Peter. God, he kinda wishes he was Dead Peter, most of the time. Except in little moments like this. This—this is a reason to feel alive again. It’s so funny now, to think about how Peter was reluctant at first about teaching Miles. How he was so eager to get back to his shithole apartment. Two days in that gross studio again and Peter was fantasizing about Aunt May’s Shepherd’s Pie and Mary Jane’s tits. Not the cold, distant Mary Jane he married and divorced. Though Peter knows, deep down, it’s just another flaw in his own character.

At the same time, who can blame him for leaving?

***

It’s just a measly bank robbery, but Mary Jane’s there, by God or whoever-up-there’s grace. She must work nearby, or something. Peter and Miles come across it on their way home from training, and they make quick work of the four guys. Some people are still confused about the existence of two Spider-Mans; if only they knew, Peter thinks.  
  
Miles, fresh with the heat of training, delivers one swift kick after another. He barely needs Peter at all. It feels irresponsible to leave him alone with it, though. Not this in particular, but all of it. He’s just a kid. Doesn’t there need to be some guardian law? Not that any of this is strictly inside the law.  
  
The police arrive and Mary Jane is among the clapping, doe-eyed onlookers. Peter and she make eye contact—Peter thinks, anyway. He knows she can’t see his eyes. He nods in her direction just in case, as Miles vigorously shakes hands with some grateful hostages.  
  
Peter takes him out for dinner after, pizza by the slice. Miles gets four slices, and they’re huge. Peter gets three, but he knows he’s gonna pay for it later in a way Miles won’t have to worry about. He’s old.

He watches Miles wolf down slice after slice and considers telling him about just how amazing he is. Some part of him stops the words short.

He doesn’t want to tell him, _you don’t need me._  
  
The threat of loneliness looms over Peter like the skyscrapers outside the pizza place as he fist-bumps Miles good night. Dramatic, yeah, but he really wants a hug.

***

“Hi.” Her voice is warm on the line.

“Hi,” Peter replies, and chuckles, definitely chuckles and not giggles, “I just wanted to ask if you wanted to get food, or something, later? Tonight? Or like, whenever?”

He imagines her eyes crinkling, her lips stretching into a smile as he hears, “that sounds good. Tonight sounds good.” 

***

“Mmm,” Mary Jane sighs, and it’s music to Peter’s ears.

She feels as good as a favorite song up against him, the two of them connected, for the first time but again, too, for Peter. So that part of it is supremely weird. This Mary Jane has different freckles, though, and Peter’s elated to learn every new one, with his eyes, his mouth, his hands. He mouths her neck gently, trying hard to be this better Peter, who doesn’t bust a nut and roll over to sleep. This new version of himself doesn’t do that. Second-Chance Peter, he’s taken to calling himself (because it sounds better than Alive or Second-Rate Peter) cares about making Mary Jane come first. Second-Chance Peter makes sure to kiss his way down slowly, teasing her, a few fingers fluttering lightly over her pussy lips, her clit. Her nails dig into his shoulders when he dives in. He doesn’t come up for air until she’s shivering and twitching under him, and even then, he goes until his jaw is aching and she’s pleading for him to stop.  
  
He crawls up the outer house wall again, doesn’t scrabble this time. He’s not drunk; he’s sated, smelling like sex and a new man. He doesn’t even want to shower it off, reveling in it. Holy shit, he hasn’t felt this good in years.  
  
His Spidey-sense tingles as soon as he gets close to his window ledge. There’s someone in his room. It’s about 5 in the morning. Mary Jane gently but firmly kicked him out, and he just wants to sleep. He slides up to the left of his window, on the outside, and peeks in. There’s a small shadow of a figure on his bed. Peter bites both his lips and rolls his eyes, hard. He loves the kid, but there’s a time and a place for this. And Miles has got school in the morning.  
  
Then, he hears it: sniffling, a small hiccup.  
  
“Miles,” Peter says gently, and the shadowy figure blinks out of view, then blinks back in.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Miles whispers, sitting up, “I just—I didn’t wanna be at the dorms and I didn’t wanna go home because my parents would just yell at me. You’re usually awake and—and I just thought—“  
  
“It’s okay,” Peter soothes. He shrugs off his jacket onto the ground and sits next to where Miles is leaned up against the headboard. He reaches out but stops himself, hand crooked in thin air. “What’s wrong, buddy?”  
  
Miles swallows thickly and says, in a strangled voice, “I really miss my uncle. I always went to his place when I felt bummed about shit, and I had a shitty day, and I just want to go and hang out with him,” he chokes back a sob, “I just want to watch TV with him, or—or ask him for advice and I can’t, man. I can’t. I can’t. He’s gone forever. I’m never—I can’t ever hang out—“  
  
Peter pulls him close, reservations be damned, because his heart is breaking seeing Miles like this.  
  
“It’s okay to cry over it,” he mumbles into Miles’ hair. Miles curls into him the way he was curling into himself, hands gripping Peter’s shirt tight around his waist. “You never stop missing them. I miss my aunt, too.”  
  
“But you get to see her again,” Miles whispers, his voice more frantic as he pulls back to look up at Peter, his face tear-stained, “she’s just in the next room. Do you think…”  
  
Peter shakes his head sadly, running a thumb over Miles’ cheek to sweep away some the tears, “You and I both know it’s not the same.”  
  
Miles nods, closes his eyes. Peter feels hot, fresh tears roll down his hand. He presses his cheek into Miles’ hair and closes his eyes, pulling his hand away to rub circles along Miles’ back.  
  
“I know nothing will replace your uncle,” he says, as Miles shifts against him, “I know that. And I know… I know I’m not him. But if you ever need advice, a place to crash… I should just get my own apartment.”  
  
Miles snorts wetly against his shirt. “You don’t have a job.”  
  
“Look, I’ll get one,” Peter grumbles. He’s wanted to, it’s just that he hasn’t been sure about the commitment until now, and moreover, applying to jobs is hard. “Aunt May’s probably eager to get me out at this point.”  
  
Miles chuckles at that, then sniffs again. Peter turns his face and presses a kiss into Miles’ hair. He smells good, like coconut or shea or something. It just feels right. It feels fatherly, even.  
  
Miles pulls away, after a moment.  
  
“No offense, man,” he says, wiping his eyes and nose with his sleeve, “but you smell.”

Ah. Not very fatherly of Peter.  
  
“Sorry,” Peter says, and tucks his hands in his lap, because he can’t think of a good excuse.  
  
Miles squints. “Oh my god, wait. You had a date tonight with Mary Jane. Did it go well? Did you guys have sex? Is that why you smell all like, moist and shit?”  
  
It’s Peter’s turn to curl into himself, but he stops himself and stands up.  
  
“I’ll shower,” he says, clearing his throat to turn his voice stern, “you can stay here if you want, but don’t you have school in a couple hours?”  
  
“It went well, huh,” Miles says, a shit-eating grin creeping onto his face. It feels good to see, even if it is at Peter’s own expense.  
  
“It went alright,” Peter says in his best casual tone, “are you staying or not, _buddy_?”  
  
“God, she’s so hot,” Miles mutters, almost to himself, “you’re so lucky.”  
  
“I know, I know, she’s amazing and I’m sewer slash pond scum, don’t deserve her, et cetera. I’ve heard it all before, trust me.”  
  
“Maybe it’s the truth, then.” Miles shrugs.  
  
Peter scoffs. “That’s hurtful, Miles. But I know you’re sensitive right now. So are you staying or not? Because I’m gonna hop in the shower if you are and I’m gonna pass the fuck out if you’re not.”  
  
Miles shakes his head, standing up. “Wow, Peter. You’re so classy.”  
  
“Look, I am who I am,” Peter says, gesturing to his own chest, “and yes, for your information, it was a great date. And Mary Jane didn’t give two shits about how ‘classy’ I was — she’s down to earth.”  
  
“‘Kay,” Miles replies, brushing past him. He looks better, at least, in the morning glow. His eyes are puffy but his posture is strong, and that’s what gives Peter comfort. “Bye, Peter.”  
  
“Are you sure?” Peter hears himself ask, even if he just wants to lay naked and spread eagle over his own bed and close his eyes. He’d rather Miles be safe.  
  
“Your aunt’s probably getting up soon, and I don’t wanna give her any ideas.”  
  
“Oh my god,” Peter says, remembering the dread of the last time Aunt May almost saw them, “what are you saying?”  
  
“Glad you had a fun night,” Miles says simply. He takes two steps back out of the window, fingers tipped towards Peter, and he’s gone.  
  
Peter immediately strips down and crawls under the covers. His pillow’s fucking wet. His comforter, too. As he flips it to the other side, that feeling of heartbreak returns. Poor kid. Poor fucking kid. Even with Peter’s losses, he’s not sure he could handle what Miles has been through. And the kid’s so young. And to help, Peter kissed his head while smelling like pussy. Christ. He really is just Second-Rate, or maybe Tenth-Rate Peter at this point. The poor kid deserves better. But he also deserves something more than nothing. Without Peter, there’s no Spider-Man willing to be out of their timeline long enough to do what he does. There’s nothing.

 _What_ do _you do?_ His mind asks him, the voice sounding eerily like Miles. Genuine, blunt curiosity.  
  
Peter can’t think about the answer to that one too hard. He’s in a good place tonight, and it’ll just take those two bits of extra rumination to push him over the edge and turn him into 200-Rate Peter, if such a thing exists.  
  
_Well,_ he answers himself, or maybe the Miles in his head, _tonight I made Mary Jane a very satisfied woman._  
  
_And how does that help me?_  
  
Peter doesn’t know how to answer that, so he rewinds back to his previous answer, and leaves it there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been a draft for a really long time. I’m about 60% of the way into this story but figured I’d at least post the first chapter. If you’ve enjoyed, please let me know!


	2. Chapter 2

“I know you’re a funny guy. But you’re shy--you lock up.”

“No I don’t,” Miles retorts, “I’m cool with everybody.”

“You are,” Peter says, gesturing with a fry, “and that’s because of your glittering personality. But with the news reporters, with the cops. Girls. You lock up. Your dad thinks you’re some kind of freak.”

“He’s always thought that.” Miles sucks his milkshake through his straw. “What do you mean, I ‘lock up?’”

“You just get all weird and choppy,” Peter says, “didn’t you see how your Peter was on TV? I bet he was just _sooo_ good at talking on TV.”

“Yeah,” Miles says. He looks out the window, thoughtful. “Yeah, he was really good with the cameras. And the people. But the people like me just fine.”

“You have to do more than that,” Peter says, “you gotta build rapport.”

“So, what? You gonna give me acting lessons or something?”

“Yes, actually! That’s a good idea. Or maybe we should go to the local improv…” Miles makes a face, and Peter shrugs. “It’s really not that hard--you just gotta learn a few lines that you can say over and over. Like I said, you’re a funny kid. You had some good one-liners when we last ran into Shocker. They were... zappy.” Miles rolls his eyes. "But when you talk to reporters, that’s different. That’s about establishing an image. Something beyond just a vigilante gone wild.”

“I can’t imagine what your image is back home,” Miles says, and grins.

It’s Peter’s turn to roll his eyes. “Just because I don’t take care of myself doesn’t mean I don’t know what to do. I know what the people like. Do as I say, not as I do.”

“Fine. Whatever. We can do that.”

“Great.” Peter reaches over and pats his head.

“I just feel like it’s less important than teaching me about guys like Shocker,” Miles says around his burger, after a quiet moment. “Fighting strategies and shit.”

“Trust me, kid,” Peter says, “I fucking hate the politics game. But you’re only immune to the law right now because the law is slow. Slow as balls, but still moving. There are guys out there: old, cranky, powerful men. And they’re all talking, finding ways of plotting against you. If you don’t fight for yourself, nobody will.”

“Whatever,” Miles says, “I’ll play their stupid game. And I’ll take ‘em down if I need to.You’ll be there to help me either way, right?”

Peter huffs a small laugh, “well… yeah. Of course.”

“Don’t they have a job for things like that? Like a PR agent.”

“Yeah. And I’m doing it for free. I got a job, speaking of.”

“Wow!” Miles looks genuinely impressed. “How did you get employed with no papers?”

“I have papers,” Peter protests, “it’s just my ATM card and stuff that doesn’t work. And I haven’t double checked if my address exists here. Why haven’t I done that? Anyway, I’m working at a hole in the wall, and they pay me in cash. There’s no background checks. Just for something to do in the meantime, you know?”

“So you can take Mary Jane out on more dates,” Miles replies. He finishes his burger, crumpling up the napkin in his hands. “How’s that going, by the way?”

Peter stares at a stain on the seat past Miles’ shoulder as thoughts of Mary Jane’s freckles find their way to the forefront of his mind. “It’s amazing.”

It’s been amazing. Peter sees her a couple times a week, sometimes more, their dates finally reaching the stage of casual pajama TV-watching and Chinese food. His favorite. It’s even better when he doesn’t have to do it alone.

“Good for you, man,” Miles says. “I mean it. I’m glad you’re happy.”

“Aw,” Peter says, “Thanks, buddy. You’re sweet.”

“Hey, so…” Miles drops his voice down, so Peter has to lean in, “does she look the same as your Mary Jane?”

“Oh,” Peter says, “yeah, she really does. But… kinder, you know? Not that my Mary Jane wasn’t kind, but—I guess less… more… fresh?”

“That was a weird answer,” Miles says, but his voice is still low. “I meant like… everywhere.”

“Oh,” Peter repeats. He leans back, and he doesn’t even know why he’s considering an answer. “That’s a weird question. And private.”

Miles scoffs, sitting back. “Whatever.”

Peter squints at Miles. He’s old enough. There’s no use pretending he doesn’t know about sex. “Okay. Don’t tell anyone.”

Miles sits back up, with rapt attention.

“Miles,” Peter warns.

“Tell who what?” Miles replies.

Peter leans back in, close to Miles’ ear. “Okay. Fine. This is it: she shaves. Mine didn’t.”

“Oh, shit,” Miles whispers. He sounds strained. Peter feels satisfied at the reaction, then guilty.

“Don’t tell anyone,” he repeats, before drawing back. Miles nods against him as he does, and man, his cheek is soft. A little warm, too. It’s nice, especially because Miles doesn’t pull away from the touch, either. It’s just nice.

Peter catches himself as Miles sits back, lost in thought. Teenagers. Christ, what exactly is Peter doing?

 

***

 

His sleep is, once again, interrupted by some noise outside, and at first he thinks the sharp raps on his window are just from Miles being a dick. But then he opens his eyes and it’s dark, pretty late at night, and Miles knows better than to knock loudly like that. He sits up, squinting at the figure in the window.

It’s Gwen. She makes a quick, impatient-looking gesture at him, and he slides out of bed and pads over to slide the window open. Why does this keep happening? Why do teenagers keep sneaking into his room?

“Hey,” Gwen says, her voice neutral, which instantly worries Peter.

“Hey…” Peter says, scratching his stomach as he watches her enter his room, “uh...hey, it’s pretty late…”

“Yeah, I know,” Gwen says, “Peter.”

“Gwen,” Peter says.

Gwen presses her lips together and folds her arms. Peter looks down, knowing what’s coming.

“I know--”

“Peter, this isn’t a joke. I really hoped you wouldn’t still be here.”

“Just doing sanity checks, huh?” Peter looks back up at her. “I appreciate the concern, but I’m kinda twice your age, so…”

“So what? Shathra’s still going to rip up the city looking for you if you’re fifty, too.”

“Shathra?” Peter lets out a slow breath. “Wow. I mean, I guess...okay, I can go back, take care of it--”

“She’s ripped up your reputation, too, by the way. Again, from what I hear. Peter, you can’t stay here. We’ve talked about this just how many times?”

“Way too many times,” Peter grumbles.

“This isn’t your universe. Even if you’re not glitching, something has to be wrong with you.”

Peter did glitch out, earlier. Now he knows why.

“Keep your voice down,” he says instead, “let’s take this conversation outside.”

Gwen watches him with crossed arms as he grabs a dirty sweatshirt from the floor and slips it on. He shoos her back towards the window, and they mercifully leave Aunt May to her much-needed sleep.

They settle on the roof of a nearby building, the two of them perched on the ledge, the moon’s crescent large in front of them. The city still moves beneath them, cars filtering through the brightly lit streets.

“Rumor has it you’ve got two kids from an affair,” Gwen says.

“She really is a one trick pony,” Peter yawns.

Gwen sighs. “Listen. I’m sorry for just yelling at you off the bat. I’m not your babysitter. I know you don’t like your life back there.”

Peter waits, his own arms crossed now. He feels a weight, one he’s ignored for a while, settle on his shoulders as Gwen chooses her next words carefully.

“It’s not your world to save, here. It’s just--it’s not your world.”

“Says who?”

“Says the people who need you,” Gwen snaps, “oh my god, Peter. I’m really trying hard not to get mad again here. Why don’t you get it?”

“I get it,” Peter bites out, “gotta be miserable for the people.”

Gwen stares at him like he’s sprouted horns. “Yes. Peter. Yes, that’s our job. We’re all ready to be miserable for it. We’re all ready to die for it. You know Miles is ready to die for it.”

“What’s the good if he dies now? I’m trying to make sure he doesn’t yet,” Peter says, “he needs me.”

“Oh, he does?” Gwen shakes her head. “He does?”

“Yeah.” Peter frowns at her. “He’s just a kid.”

“So am I,” Gwen hisses, “and I’m telling you the right thing to do.”

“That’s the thing,” Peter says, and he hates how he sounds when he says it, “you just think it’s the right thing to do. I thought I knew everything when I was your age, too.”

Gwen grabs him by the collar of his sweatshirt and yanks him close. “Go the _fuck_ home, Peter!”

Peter doesn’t push her off because that would send her backwards off the ledge, and he’s not a monster, and she’s right, after all. He scoots away and Gwen lets go. He stands up, dusting off his sweatshirt, to little effect, and avoiding Gwen’s eyes.

“Okay,” Peter says, “well. If this is how the conversation is gonna go, I think I’m done.”

“Of course you are,” Gwen says, and she doesn’t sound malicious. Just tired. “So are you at least going to confront Shathra? Or do I have to clean that up for you?”

“It’s not your universe,” Peter says to her, then shakes his head. “Gwen, I’m sorry. I’m sorry--yeah. Just. I’ll go. Just give me a few hours, okay? You don’t need to handle it. I got it.”

Gwen nods, and her lips are still pressed into a thin line.

“I’m sorry,” Peter says again.

“See you, Peter.”

With that, she’s gone.

 

***

 

Switching dimensions isn’t easy, but there are enough components left behind to let it happen, with some help from Aunt May and her friends. It’s a device they keep holed up in the lab, the Spideyhole, as Peter likes to call it. Peter has grandiose ideas about cross-universe hero work, like he’s trying to do now, but Gwen has a point. Well, she’s a hundred percent right. Peter can’t even take care of his own world.

He stares at the control panel for a long time. Then, his phone buzzes. It’s Miles.

 _wyd_ , the text says.

Peter thinks for a moment.

_About to go back to my universe to defeat a shapeshifting ex. U?_

Miles responds almost immediately: _Coming with you._

Peter chuckles to himself. He’s not about to stop him. He hasn’t tried to control Miles for a long time; it’s not his place.

It doesn’t take long for Miles to get there. The elevator churns its way up and Peter watches it return down with one slim Spider-Man, clad in stylish black and red, ready for adventure.

“So who is she and what did you do to piss her off?” Miles asks, as Peter pulls him into a side hug and tugs on his hair playfully.

“She wants power,” Peter says, as Miles slaps him off, “we didn’t actually date. But Gw—well, I heard she’s now saying we have kids from an affair or something. I don’t know why she’s even bothering. I haven’t been on the radar, lately.”

“Damn, Peter,” Miles says, brushing past him to slide out the control panel, “you can’t just ignore your own life like that.”

“Things have been quiet for a long time,” Peter protests, “I’ve been checking up on it. I have.”

“Knowing this city, that’s just not possible,” Miles says, and he’s too smart for Peter’s own good. But there are still things he doesn’t know—things that Peter can teach him. Peter barely knows how to work that control pad, and of course Miles’ fingers fly over it with ease. Goddamn teenagers.

Miles’ phone pings.

“Oh man,” Miles says, “I dunno what would’ve happened if I took this with me.” He slips it out of a hidden pocket and checks it while Peter waits. He grins, then laughs before typing back.

“What’s so funny?” Peter asks.

“Nothing.” Miles has this doofy look on his face. Peter knows it well. He’s seen his own reflection many times.

“I know that look,” He says as much, “don’t try to hide it from me. Who is it?”

Miles clicks his phone shut and sets it on top of the console. “I ain’t saying.”

“Oh come on,” Peter says, the impatience much louder in him than he realizes.

“What difference would it make to you? You don’t know her.”

“Her! Well, well.”

“Or him,” Miles says. His phone pings again.

“Him?” Peter nods. “Didn’t assume anything, just so you know—“

“That’s not—“ Miles grabs his phone off the console to check it, “not what I meant, though, it’s not that I’m…” he gets lost in thought, typing away.

“I see,” Peter says, though he doesn’t see at all. “So… it’s not a crush?”

“Just—stop.” Miles waves a hand at him without looking, the other hand still thumbing furiously at the screen.

“Are you writing an essay?” Peter tries to see his screen, but Miles steps away. “Please don’t tell me you’re asking them out via text.”

“First of all,” Miles says, “nobody gives a shit about that anymore and everyone hates talking on the phone. Second of all, I’m not asking anyone out. I’m just ranting about a teacher we have. Okay? Sorry. I’m ready now.” He puts the phone back on the console.

“It’s fine, kid,” Peter says, “really. You don’t have to come. This is my mess.”

“It’s okay,” Miles says, “the city will be fine for a day or so. Then I’ll leave.”

A terrible thought occurs to Peter.

“You haven’t mentioned this to Gwen, have you?” He asks.

“No. You literally told me about this like an hour ago,” Miles says, and Peter’s shoulders sag in relief.

“Good. She would skin me alive if she knew you were coming.”

“Psh,” Miles scoffs, “she’s only one year older than me. She can’t tell me what to do.”

“She’d kill me, not you,” Peter says, “so don’t tell her.”

“We’re keeping a lot of secrets between each other,” Miles says. His tone is cheeky, and it makes Peter feel warm.

“Hold my hand,” he tells Miles, and they step into the fray.

 

***

 

Miles can only describe the experience of entering the dimension vortex as weird. He can’t quite describe the feeling.

While playing basketball, he’d once slipped after a jump and landed badly on his wrist. After the sprain had healed, the muscle around it was still tight and difficult to flex. Uncle Aaron had taken him to a chiropractor (his parents aren’t fond of chiropractors), who ground some sort of tool down his arm, the force of it both painful and wonderful. He always felt a little better afterwards. Teleporting here felt like his whole body was ground under that tool, like his muscles were peeling down his bones, skin moving with sinew. Peter’s hand slipped out of his, and they’d landed, somewhat harshly, in a dank, gray room.

Miles sits up and looks around.

The machine glows bright in the corner, the power humming strong enough to keep Peter coming back and forth several times. Why he’s okay with these mind-bending moments, Miles doesn’t know. He does know that something feels wrong, though, like he’s in a dream and something’s just a little off. It’s more than a little off in this case. They always say to look down at your toes.

Miles looks down. His feet are covered by his suit.

“Trying to wrap your head around the fact that you don’t exist?” Peter’s voice comes from behind. Miles looks and he’s picking himself up, dusting off his coat.

“More like I have no idea where I am,” Miles says, looking around for answers to a question he can’t formulate, “I guess that’s kind of the same thing, huh?

“What do you mean? We’re in New York.” Peter’s hand lands on his shoulder, and Miles jumps. “Sorry,” Peter says, letting go, “I got scared when I lost you in the vortex for a sec.”

“I’m both surprised we haven’t done this before and glad, too,” Miles says. He feels a weird combination of sick and hungry. “Are we gonna go fight right now?”

“Are you kidding?” Peter tsks. “I taught you better than this, Miles. First, we must plan. What’s the first step of heroism?”

“For you?” Miles thinks real hard. “Going back to your apartment and ordering pizza?”

“Gathering intel,” Peter says, shaking his head, “over pizza is fine, though.”

There’s a ladder in the corner of the room, and Peter leads him to it. Miles stares up into the round circular opening above them. There’s nothing but dark up there. Peter urges him up and Miles climbs up and out into what looks like a garage. He can hardly see anything. Peter climbs up the ladder behind him and Miles takes a step back to feel for the wall. He touches it. It’s cool metal.

“Where are we?” Miles asks, as Peter drags something, a rug, maybe, over the hole.

“Storage unit,” Peter says, “not my apartment, don’t worry.”

“That’s a relief,” Miles says. “This your lab or something?”

“Save it,” Peter says, clearly not in the mood to be compared.

They take the bus, and Miles thinks he should be hiding, for some reason. It’s like everyone can see right through him. Maybe they are. Maybe he’s seethrough. He finds himself scooting closer to Peter, a body solid and warm.

“You okay?” Peter asks. His arm drops from the seat onto Miles’ shoulders, and Miles leans back into it. “Second thoughts? You wanna go back? If you do, you’ll tell me, right? We can go back right now—“

“Chill, man,” Miles says, “I’m fine.”

The minutes tick by, and it doesn’t take long before the adrenaline channels somewhere else: he’s itching to fight.


	3. Chapter 3

Turns out Peter’s apartment isn’t that much better than a storage unit. It kind of smells like garbage and cigarette smoke. The walls are yellowing at the edges, and there’s a single mattress in the middle of his living room, plopped right in front of an old TV. Fast food wrappers, empty bags of chips, and crinkled tinfoil surround the mattress like offerings to a shrine of depression. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Peter is saying, brushing past Miles to cross the room to the lone window. He jerks it open after a few sticky tries, and fresh air makes its way in. Miles realizes he’s been holding his breath, and lets go. “Look, I just haven’t had time to clean it.”

“Uh-huh,” Miles says flatly.

“I haven’t been back for awhile,” Peter insists. 

“Who’s fault is that?” Miles walks just a few steps, and he’s now in the kitchen. Even for a New York apartment, this is tiny. He doesn’t want to think about the dishes in the sink, though there are mercifully few. He turns his head and there’s a picture of Peter and Mary Jane on the fridge, held in place with a magnet advertising a fast food place. 

_ Yikes _ , Miles thinks. 

Peter’s hand shoots past his shoulder, and the picture’s ripped out from under the magnet. 

“I shouldn’t have let you come if all you’re gonna do is judge me,” Peter grumbles, crumpling the photo and putting it into his pocket. 

“I barely said anything,” Miles says.

“Your face says it all,” Peter replies, “sorry I don’t go to  _ private school. _ ”

Miles turns to face him, a current of irritation zapping through him. “Fuck you.”

“What! Whoa!” Peter waves his hands.

“You don’t know where I came from,” Miles says, and puts a palm on Peter’s chest. He pushes him and Peter takes a step back, his lips pursed and his brows drawn together. “You don’t know what I had to deal with, and I  _ liked _ public school. And even when we lived in a shithole, we didn’t make it  _ look _ like a shithole. We made it a home. What’s your excuse?”

“Depression,” Peter says. 

Miles rolls his eyes, which only makes Peter’s lips more pursed, his brow tighter. 

“Sorry,” Peter says quietly, “I’m sure your place is, uh, was always great.”

Miles feels the rush of anger dissipate as fast as it came. “I’d invite you over for dinner, but you’d creep my parents out.”

Peter scoffs. “I’m not creepy!” He pauses. “Do I creep you out?”

“No.” Miles laughs. “‘Cause I could take you, easy.”

“Take me, huh?” Peter rubs his chin. “That a challenge?”

“Maybe,” Miles says, cracking his knuckles. He’s still itching to fight. 

“I’d rather just get some food,” Peter says, “and research. Wouldn’t you?”

Miles shrugs and drops his hands. “Sure.”

Peter orders delivery while Miles kicks the trash around his mattress into a small pile, finding a place to sit. No wonder Peter’s depressed; just being here for more than five minutes makes Miles depressed. No wonder he leaves all the time. 

Peter flops down on the mattress next to him and kicks his legs out. “I got pepperoni.”

“Great,” Miles says, gathering his knees together and resting his chin on them, “so who’s Shathra?”

“Ah,” Peter says, in a tone like the world has called upon his wisdom, “the Spider-Wasp. She’s our natural predator!”

“Oh, sick,” Miles says sarcastically, “how come I haven’t seen her?”

“I don’t know how your universe works.” Peter lies back and crossed his arms behind his head. “She’s really sneaky, anyway. Last time she was here I got in all sorts of trouble with MJ. I’m pretty sure it’s one of the reasons that led to our divorce.”

Miles lies on his side to see him, and rests his cheek on his palm. “How so?”

“Same shit she’s doing now,” Peter says, shifting to mirror Miles’ pose, “she doesn’t even know I’m divorced. Telling people I have some baby from an affair. the first time around, she came and talked about being my secret girlfriend. And even when she showed her true form, I think… I think MJ just thought I’d fuck with something like that, anyway. I think a part of her did.”

Peter’s really baring his heart to him. It makes Miles feel warm. Mature. Adult, talking about adult things like contributions to divorce. 

“Sorry, man,” he replies. 

Peter’s eyes snap back to his, having wandered elsewhere, deep in thought. “Sorry for what?”

“That you went through that. And that you’re going through it again.”

“Having you around makes me feel better,” Peter says. Miles feels warm again. There’s a thick strand of gray hair that’s sticking up comically from Peter’s part as he talks. Miles wants to smooth it down, all of a sudden. He runs his hand over his own head instead.

“Me too,” Miles says. 

“Aww,” Peter says, “you mean that?”

Miles decides to do it anyway. He reaches over and presses Peter’s cowlick down. It pops back up and Peter threads his fingers through his own hair, grinning at him. 

“I guess,” Miles sighs in playful mock exhaustion, “even if you are a dirty cheater.”

“That’s not why I told you this story,” Peter tuts. “And the point of it is that I didn’t cheat.”

“Do you think that if MJ was convinced enough that you did, that it says something about you?”

“Oof,” Peter says, putting a hand over his gut, “straight for the jugular. Why doesn’t it say something about MJ?”

Miles shrugs. “I dunno.”

Peter chuckles and pushes lightly at Miles’ shoulder with one hand. “you’re useless.”

“What? This isn’t my area of expertise,” Miles scoffs, “you just made bad decisions.”

“Please,” Peter scoffs back, “I’d like to see you navigate my life. The thing about bad decisions--and you’ll understand when you’re older--is that--”

“ _ You’ll understand when you’re older _ ,” Miles mimics him, and Peter pushes at him again. Miles pushes back. They tussle for a moment, and Miles swears he’s getting the advantage, pulling up Peter’s arm behind his head, before Peter pushes him off and away.

“Okay, okay—chill!” Peter starts rummaging in a pile of clothes, “we’ve got things to do, kid.” He pulls out a laptop.

“That thing’s probably dead,” Miles says, gathering his legs and crossing them. Peter keeps rummaging, probably for a charger. He pulls out a giant brick-looking thing, and Miles figures that’s it.

“Intel,” Peter says, plugging the charger in. The computer comes to life with the help of loudly whirring fans. Peter turns the screen away from Miles as he logs in.

“What, you were looking at porn last?” Miles asks.

Peter’s eyes never leave the screen as he clicks around. “Why do you think it’s near my bed?”

“Oh.” Miles expected him to at least try to deny it.

“Aha,” Peter says, turning the screen back around to show Miles. A list of articles from years past carry both Spider-Man’s name and someone named Sharon Keller, and there are so many. “This woman ruined my goddamn life.” 

“‘Spider-Man is a ‘kinky cheater’ according to estranged mistress Sharon Keller,” Miles reads, then looks at Peter.

Peter screws up his face. “We never—she wouldn’t know. Why are you looking at me like that?”

Miles turns back to click on the article. A picture of Sharon/Shathra slowly loads next to the text.

“Because she’s hot.” 

“So what?”

“And you’re,” Miles looks him up and down, “you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know,” Miles says. 

“Christ,” Peter says, his voice getting louder, “ _ I did not cheat on Mary Jane with a fucking demon from another universe. _ ” 

“Okay,” Miles says, reading through the article, “oof, this is juicy.”

Peter snatches the laptop away from him with a force that makes Miles lean back. “Fuck off, Miles.” 

“Why are you so pressed if you didn’t do it?” Miles cocks a brow.

“Because you don’t believe me!” Peter’s mouth is turned down into a sharp frown, and he’s holding the laptop like a shield, “You really do think I’m a creep.”

“I’m just messing with you, man,” Miles says, reaching out for the laptop, “and you know Shathra’s going to use this stuff just to hurt you again.” 

“Well, we’re divorced now,” Peter says, reluctantly handing it over, and he doesn’t seem to accept the joke, “so it’s not like she can hurt me much anymore.” 

“Hope not,” Miles says, clicking out of the article and into a more recent one. “How’d you find out about her being back?”

“I still keep a tab on things,” Peter says, his tone still defensive. “I know she’s using the same name just to get to me. No doubt she’s saying I beat her into silence, or something.”

Miles skims through another article. “Yup, she sure is.” 

“Well, I did—kind of,” Peter mumbles, “scoot over.”  

“Holy shit,” Miles says, as Peter leans in. He’d scrolled back down to the older articles and clicked on a video that shows Peter, in full gear, punching Sharon’s face in. “You sure fucking did.”  

“I wasn’t my best self!” Peter insists, putting his palm over his eyes, “Fuck, I regret bringing you. Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“Yo,” Miles laughs, “Peter, she’s a fucking murderer, right? You think I’m not on your side?” Peter lowers his hand, and Miles realizes that’s exactly what he thinks. “You’re paranoid, man. We’re a team, right?”

“But you—” Peter groans. “Yeah, Jesus, I don’t know why I’m so sensitive all of a sudden. It’s just—it’s brings back a lot of bad memories, okay? I’d appreciate it if you laid off a bit.”

“Look,” Miles directs him back to the video, “she transforms—did you forget that? Obviously nobody thought you were actually a woman-beater.” 

“Obviously people forgot, otherwise they wouldn’t put her on the air again.” Peter’s staring at him like he’s stupid, now. Miles looks away.

“Don’t take it out on me,” he mumbles.

“Sorry,” Peter says, “I’m sorry again. You’re right, I’m… I’m the adult, here. You’re just a kid.”    


The hand that lands on Miles’ shoulder feels too heavy all of a sudden.

“I’m not just a kid,” Miles says, and it sounds petulant even to his own ears. 

“You’re not,” Peter agrees, and he squeezes Miles’ shoulder, “you’ve been through a lot. You’ve seen a lot. You’re a hero, Miles. I’m sorry for freaking out on you. I know—I know what it’s like to be dealing with shit at your—well—around your age, and it’s hard. And you deal with it really well. You’re almost more mature than I am, actually.”

“Not much of a bar, there,” Miles can’t help but say, crossing his arms. Peter’s hand comes around to hug Miles back against his chest.

“Truce, please,” he says into Miles’ hair. Miles tries to wriggle out and Peter’s other arm locks him in.

“We’re wasting time,” Miles says, his arms falling slack.

“Accept my apology, or I won’t let go.” Peter’s arms tighten around him, as if to prove a point. He’s still really strong despite looking all doughy and stuff, if that’s his point. His stubble scrapes against Miles’ ear. It gets hot. Embarrassingly hot.

“Truce,” Miles all but whispers. He’s relieved when Peter lets go and he can turn his attention back to the articles. Even with all the wrestling, being dragged back like that into a hug did something weird to him. Or it brought something weird back up in him. He clears his throat. “What are the odds she knows where you live?”

“She probably, definitely does,” Peter says. 

Someone knocks on their apartment door, as if on cue. Miles, in his surprise, pops invisible. 

“It’s just the pizza,” Peter assures him, getting up to open the door. He takes cash out of his wallet—Miles wonders if the currency is different here—and pays the delivery man, bringing back a large box that smells amazing.

Miles’ stomach growls. “I didn’t realize I was so hungry.”

Peter nods. “See? That’s why you plan with food in your belly.”

They eat the pizza straight out of the box while Peter fills him in about the last time they fought, how Shathra all but disappeared, how people are still inclined to believe her even after the first time. It’s working; whatever excuses Shathra’s brought up smears Spider-Man’s name in less than kind terms once again. And this time, with his absence, people are more inclined to have negative opinions. Sure enough, there they are, written in the print on Peter’s stained laptop screen. 

“I didn't even realize you’d been gone this long,” Miles says, frowning. It’s weird to think about it like this, to be confronted with the reality of it all. 

“To be completely honest with you,” Peter says, leveling his gaze with Miles while his mouth is full, “like, to be  _ completely _ honest… I did try to stay. At first. Remember?”

Miles thinks back to the whirlwind after defeating Kingpin, memories tinged with all the victorious colors of proper heroism. Peter gushing, full of love and laughter before he left. Everything felt like it was back to normal, sort of, a new normal. A better normal for Miles, one that kept him moving for a long time, one with cool, hilarious late-night conversations with Gwen. One where his dad saw Spider-Man on TV and, instead of launching into his usual tirade, just watched him work, sipping his coffee in quiet thought. Miles had felt such a bloom of pride at that. 

Then, one day, as Miles walked home from school, he’d felt a shadow cross him from overhead. He looked up and was shocked to find none other than Peter waving at him from the side of a building.

“Miss me?” Peter had asked. And Miles had, he really had. And when he said as much, Peter had beamed.

It’s been a little easier living without Uncle Aaron, these days. Just a little. Every morning when Miles wakes up, there’s still a part of him that curls and withers in knowing he’s never going to go up to that apartment—cool in temperature and style, a second home, always but not anymore—again. He’d slinged past it just the other day, peeking into it to find it devoid of furniture. Just another apartment for sale, no doubt with the rent kicked up to an unreasonable degree. And to hold back the fresh wave of tears that threatened him, he’d thought of Aunt May’s house, of Peter’s room there, how he was gonna bring his Switch by later, a birthday gift that he wanted to share. It’s not the same, but it’s something. It’s something that makes Miles feel good, and he wants to be so close to the good parts of Peter. He wants to scooch in closer like he did on the bus, into Peter’s big warm chest. 

“I guess you were gone a long time,” Miles replies. 

“I tried, man,” Peter sighs. “I took her out. It didn’t take. And it’s probably all the worse for now, it probably looks even worse.” He shakes his head, then puts it in his hands. “Everything’s more ruined than it ever could be.”

Miles wants to find the right words to say. Peter kneads his forehead as he tries. 

“I’m here,” he says finally, “what, I don’t count?”

Peter looks back up at him, crooked grin giving Miles that exact warmth he’s looking for. 

“I meant here,” Peter says, flopping his hand in an everything-around-us gesture, “you don’t live here, buddy. I mean, maybe you do. Maybe we should go discover that Miles and get his potential.”

Miles, for some reason, balks at that. He’s the only Miles. He doesn’t wanna share any of it. 

“Nah,” he says.

Peter chuckles as he draws up another slice of thin-crusted pizza. It sags under the weight of its toppings. “Don’t worry, there’s clearly enough of me to go around.”

“We got more important stuff to do,” Miles says evenly. Peter nods and shrugs. 

He can’t help it. He’s curious. As Peter obliviously munches away, Miles drags himself and the laptop back towards the wall to get comfortable.

He clicks out of just Shathra and looks for all articles of Spider-Man. There aren’t that many in the most recent weeks, aside from Shathra/Sharon, who seems determined to grab as many headlines as she can. They’re mostly under tabloids, thankfully enough. Miles clicks on one of the broader tags,  _ Villainry _ , and the number of recent headlines there makes him worry.

_ Under Attack Again: Where is Spider-Man? _ One headline pleads.

Then, third down on the list,  _ a New Spider-Hero _ ?

“Peter,” Miles says, clicking on it immediately. Could it be?

“Yeah?” Peter says, taking a swig of an unopened beer can he’d found under the table.

Miles starts to read the article, but his eyes are drawn to the picture. A flash of purple and white,  graceful in the air. It couldn’t be. 

“Gwen,” Miles says. 

“What?” Peter sounds nervous. “What about her?”

Miles turns the laptop to show him. It’s definitely her, twisted ballerina-like in the air while webbing a muscled lizard-man into the side of a tall brick building. 

“What the fuck,” Peter says slowly. 

“Holy shit,” Miles says, “that’s crazy, bro. Why’s she here? Why is she here instead of  _ you _ ?” 

_ Why’s she cleaning up your mess? _ He wants to ask, but Peter’s downtrodden enough already. Maybe they worked out a deal. With the way Peter’s face is twisting into a weird mixture of confused and angry, he doesn’t think that’s the case.

“I never asked her to come here,” Peter says, his tone even in a way Miles really doesn’t like. He takes the laptop from Miles, who surrenders it over quietly, feeling ashamed. “Never fucking asked her to come here.” 

“She’s probably just trying to visit you,” Miles offers. The thought comes, unbidden:  _ How come she hasn’t visited  _ you?

“No she isn’t,” Peter grumbles. He shuts the laptop and slides it away. “That’s enough intel for today. Get some sleep if you want, we’ll prowl the night in a few hours.”

“Wait wait wait,” Miles says, as Peter starts to get up, “we’re not gonna talk about this?”

“What’s there to talk about?” Peter shrugs. “I have no clue why she’s doing what she’s doing.”

“Well, maybe—”   


Peter holds up a hand. “Look, Miles, I love you, but I can’t take all of this right now. It’s just a lot to process. What I  _ am _ going to do is look for some sheets for this mattress, and pick up my shit. I’m sorry this place is such a pigsty.” 

He sounds more salty than sorry, and Miles frowns as Peter starts picking up the trash around them, very pointedly avoiding eye contact with him. With no laptop to occupy Miles’ hands, he just crosses his arms and lays his head back against the wall. He misses his own bed. 

This goes on for about ten minutes, Miles lost in thought and Peter cleaning with determination. The place does look better for it, and Miles finds himself feeling bad for Peter. It is a lot to process. Miles still has trouble processing being in a different dimension slash universe. It’s a lot more than being in a different state or country, and it hurts when he thinks about it, so he just doesn’t. 

“Are you mad?” He decides to ask Peter directly, while Peter’s fitting a sheet he found in a box over the mattress (Miles wonders how old all those half-packed boxes are). 

Peter pauses and looks over at him. “Mad?”

“Yeah,” Miles says. Now he feels stupid. He looks down.

“No,” Peter says, tone gentle enough to get Miles to look back up, “no, I’m not mad at you. Of course not.” 

“Okay,” Miles says, trying to sound nonchalant. It obviously fails, because Peter stops what he’s doing and comes to lean against the wall next to Miles.

“Look at me,” Peter says. Miles looks at him, really looks at him, stubble, laugh lines, crows’ feet and pretty eyes—

Pretty eyes? Miles swallows. That’s no good. 

“I’m looking,” he mumbles.

“I see that,” Peter says, crooked grin appearing in Miles’ peripheral, “I am not mad at you, Miles. Get it?” Miles nods. “I think I’ve been acting like a crazy person since you came by, and I think it’s because I’m just—it’s embarrassing, right? Like, what a shithole.  _ What a shithole my mentor lives in, _ that’s probably what you’re thinking, right? ‘Cause I don’t blame you, Miles. It’s truly disgusting. Pathetic. I—”

“Stop,” Miles says, uncomfortable now. He averts his eyes. 

Peter presses their foreheads together. It’s both brotherly and, if Miles dares think it, intimate. He smells like pizza and beer, an undercurrent of musk that Miles somewhat craves for himself, barbed smell and all. “Sorry.”

“Stop apologizing.” Miles turns his head, and Peter leans back.

“S—the sheets are clean, so you can nap there if you want.”

“And you?” Miles asks, looking the sheets over. 

“I cleared up a spot for myself.” Peter gestures on the now-visible patch of carpet next to the mattress. 

“Are you sure?” Miles asks. 

Peter reaches up to squeeze Miles’ cheek between his knuckles. “Yes.”

Miles lays down on the mattress, drawing the blanket that he pretends isn’t crusty up to his shoulders. He spreads the other half of it over the side of the mattress, over Peter, who accepts it and nearly leaves Miles bare. After a little tugging and some more unwanted apologies, they’re both sharing a good enough amount. 

It doesn’t take long before Peter starts snoring, but Miles can’t sleep. How can he? He turns on his other side and watches Peter sleep, open mouth like he’s screaming at the ceiling. He looks… a little bit like a corpse. How is he sleeping that hard? Miles is so on edge, body vibrating and ready to go. Why do they need to wait until night? Why don’t they just use the energy they have now? The answer to the last question is at least clear. Miles feels another wave of guilt pass over him. These walls make him feel bad; they must make Peter feel awful. It’s not a home, here. It’s not warm, literally, the draft seeping through the small gaps between the wall and the floor. Miles pulls the blanket up tighter and Peter kicks it aside and brings a hand up to scratch his exposed belly. It’s hairy, and Miles has seen him shirtless before, but not like this, passed out in the moonlight. He’s a man and Miles is just a kid, mostly hairless, fewer creases. Miles thinks about Uncle Aaron and his creases, eyes crinkling in welcome every time Miles stopped by. Along with that thought comes another piercing pain that takes Miles by surprise, especially when he starts to sniffle. He wipes his wet eyes on the blanket, trying to be quiet—not that Peter can hear much above his own snoring. 

Or can he? Peter snorts a couple of times, and his snoring pauses. 

“Mmm...Miles?” He asks, voice thick with sleep, eyes still closed.

Miles shoves his face into the sheets and blanket, trying to muffle these unbidden grief tears. He’s never going to get over not having Uncle Aaron around. He’s a mess, too. 

At least Mary Jane is alive. And Peter’s got two, now. At least one.

“Are you crying?” Shit. Caught red-handed, but the large palm that lands on his shoulder is comfortingly warm. Peter’s thumb rubs the inside of his shoulder, over the fold of his armpit and over his chest, and Miles shivers as he realizes he craves more. “Don’t cry, Miles.”

“‘M fine,” Miles mumbles, and that spurs Peter into action. 

“Scoot,” Peter tells him, pushing at Miles’ shoulder now. Miles moves further down the bed, feeling dumb and like a baby, shifting onto his side and facing away from Peter. He hears the rolling slap of the blanket as Peter lifts it into the air and over Miles, and the mattress sags as Peter crawls in next to him, more than enough cover for them both. “Tell me if this is too much, and I’ll stop.”

Miles isn’t sure what he means, but then Peter’s arms come around him and he’s pulled back against Peter’s chest. Wow.

He’s being spooned by Peter, and it feels… it feels really nice. Big and solid and warm, the same heat Miles has been wanting to scooch closer into since their bus ride, and probably longer. Now, it surrounds him, magnified in all the points their body touches, and there are many of those. 

“Does this help?” Peter asks, resting his temple against Miles’ hair. Miles feels his head move along with him as he nods, and Peter yawns and adds, “good.”

It doesn’t take long before he’s snoring into Miles’ ear, but that’s okay. And Miles’ ass is pressed up against his crotch. That feels less okay, because Miles can feel the hot shadow of something against the back of his thighs that makes him all the smaller. 

He knows it’s just because Peter’s sleeping, but the thought of it gets his stupid little horny heart going, despite his tears moments ago. He’s nestled against a body and he hasn’t been nestled against too many bodies, and the bodies he has nestled against have all been smaller, around his own frame or a bit thicker because he’s so skinny, but none so thick as Peter. Peter’s arms are wide over his, his big thighs and heavy belly. The skin of the suits between them are designed for sleekness, thin enough that Miles can feel it all. 

Does Miles have a crush on his mentor? The same thought as when he saw MJ on the fridge filters through:  _ Yikes.  _

Miles squeezes his eyes shut and then, against all judgement, squeezes his thighs together. It feels good. He pushes back against the hot shadow a little, trying not to wake Peter. Jesus, he’s fucked up. He presses back a little harder and Peter takes in a deep breath, Miles all of a sudden terrified that he’s woken him up.

Peter mumbles some gibberish, sleeptalk, adjusting his body over Miles, throwing a thigh over his. It’s blessedly warmer, and Miles’ hip presses heavy into the mattress where Peter’s covering it. 

Miles, again avoiding the part of his brain screaming not to do it in favor of the part screaming to do exactly what he does, pushes back up against Peter’s hips again, squeezes his own thighs together again. He threads his palm down between his legs and presses. Peter’s snoring in his ear again, but Miles swears his hips push back. Miles moves again, and Peter’s hips follow. No way. Miles holds himself in the grip of his palm, squeezes again. Oh, god. Oh, fuck. This is bad. This is not why Miles came, to feel Peter get harder and harder with each small circle of his hips, god, Miles isn’t a good guy. This isn’t what good guys do. He can’t come in his suit; he doesn’t have a replacement. He’s already making a mess in there, everything too tight to fit underwear in, and he’s leaking through. Thankfully, he chose black. But Peter—does he have an extra suit? Miles wants to feel how damp he is. He wants to peel off both their suits and feel how sweaty and sticky they are. He’s sweating a pool into his pillow, goes to flip it over but Peter’s head is on it too, that’s how close they are. 

Miles wants to turn around. Instead, he curls deep into himself. 

 

***

 

Thanks to Peter’s dates with MJ, he’s gotten lots of spooning opportunities. Simple, comforting, but inevitably horny. There’s nothing like waking up to a sweet, lazy fuck session. 

But this time, he awakes with a start and the first thing he feels is shame. The memories, the contact, something in the pizza fucked him over. Miles is curled up facing away from him, breaths small but deep enough to suggest he’s still sleeping, and Jesus Christ in Heaven or Wherever, Peter’s boner is pressing up firm and hard against his ass.

It’s a nightmare of horrible proportions, not what he intended it at all when he heard Miles trying to muffle his tears. Those tears scared Peter through the haze of his sleep, he still doesn’t know why Miles was crying, and he wonders if this going to make him cry, which brings another sharp zing of pain through. He’s gotta do something about this, Christ, this is gonna leave a stain on his suit. Motherfucker. This nap was a bad idea. So was that one time he kissed Miles on the head after eating MJ out for an hour. Why does he keep fucking up? Why can’t he stop fucking everything up? 

Peter starts to move the arm wrapped around Miles’ torso off, slowly, slowly. They should be getting ready, but Peter’s just gotta take a shower first. He’s paid off his lease with prewritten checks because he didn’t want to break it, just in case. He still has gas for hot water, and he wants to turn it up to scalding. What the fuck is wrong with him? What the  _ fuck _ is wrong with him?

He moves his leg next, which has, of course, been thrown unceremoniously over Miles’ hip, just to make sure that his erection is smack dab pressing into his back, so he can’t ignore it. All Peter can do is hope Miles is sleeping deeply enough not to notice. All he can do is hope that he didn’t get this hard right away. He starts thinking up excuses immediately, lands on a wet dream, which is still gross, but less dark. Just in case. Slowly, slowly, he peels himself off. Miles just hugs the blanket and curls inwards. Peter’ll wake him up after his shower.

He scrubs at the damp spot in his suit and leaves it out to dry, first. The water takes a little while to get hot, and his body wash and shampoo are mostly dried up, but he manages to salvage a small amount to clean himself. 

Miles is awake when he comes back in, wrapped in a towel while his suit dries just outside the bathroom — it usually dries quickly, technology and shit. Miles is staring at the ceiling, arms crossed behind his head, and he waves at Peter. 

“Hey.”

“Hi,” Peter says slowly, unsure. Miles cracks a small smile at him and he figures it’s fine, he was asleep, no need to let his anxiety take ahold of him. They’ve got bigger fish to fry. This is just a normal part of…. Peter’s pushing 40, he’s not a fucking teenager. He scrubs his head with a towel to stop himself from doing something weirder. 

“Why shower before fighting? You’re just gonna get dirty again.”

“Good question,” Peter mumbles, “I guess I just want to smell good for her.” Miles’ nose wrinkles, and Peter remembers their earlier conversation. “It’s a joke, Miles. Do you wanna take one? Water’s still warm.”

“Nah,” Miles says, “I’ll take one after.”

Why does the thought of that make Peter’s chest tight? At least he doesn’t want to scrub Peter off right away—probably means it’s fine. Everything’s fine.

They’re going off to find the Spider-Wasp, and everything is just, perfectly, totally fine. Totally fucking fine. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, let me know if you enjoyed :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> thank you for the kind comments! this fic keeps getting longer...

Miles keeps up with Peter easily in a new city, sort of. It’s the different distances that cause even Peter to take a few wrong turns due to his time away, grabbing for nonexistent ledges. He tries to keep it cool, keep it together to stop himself from faltering further. It’s still his city, the one he’s known so intimately for decades. How the hell did he forget? 

Miles seems distracted enough absorbing all the new sights—sort of new sights. 

“There’s no way she can’t track us down,” Peter says, mostly to himself. 

“If she could’ve found us, why’d we stay at your place?” Miles asks him when they sling up to a high rise building, finding a terrace-like roof, looking over the edge. The wind rips past them, the city below small and far  

“It wouldn’t have made a difference,” Peter says, “except for the fact that we got some much-needed sleep.”

He doesn’t mention that Shathra destroying his place would also be the optimal reason to never come back. 

“All you do is sleep,” Miles retorts, but there’s a cheekiness in his voice Peter can’t help but grin at. 

“Shut up. I told you I have a job now.”

“Did you tell them you’re taking a few days off?” Miles asks. He starts to say something else, as Peter swears to himself because he definitely did not, but they both hear that whisper, the one that insistently goes,  _ Look Out.  _ Peter knows they both do because Miles cringes the same way he does. 

The two of them jump aside just in time to avoid a dark blur taking both their heads off as it flies over them, dangerously low. 

The blur lands in the corner of the small terrace area, the force of it cracking and splitting the concrete into tiny chunks that skitter towards the two of them. It straightens, Peter sees the inky curves, the bright white eyes.

It was only a matter of time. 

“Finally,” Shathra says, her voice alone holding the low, terrifying buzzing sound of a wasp. Peter’s entire body fills with old rage, starting at his tiptoes and ending at the top of his head, where it vibrates with awareness. Maybe that’s the Spidey-Sense partly, too. Whatever it is, he hates it. “Your scent’s been missing for a while. And now... there are two of you?”

Her head tilts slightly in Miles’ direction and Peter’s rushed forward to stand in between the two of them before he knows it. 

“Don’t even look at him,” he says, and the deep, low hate in his voice surprises him. 

Shathra chuckles. “Is it in training? A baby spider? Is it perhaps the child we share?”

Peter all but snarls before leaping at her, using the momentum to twist feet first into her chest. She grabs his feet but he slaps his palms down into the ground, keeping himself glued. He, to his own credit, delivers a fierce kick that sends her flying off the building, and down. Peter rolls back up to his feet, then looks around. 

“Kid,” he says, avoiding using his name when they’re masked as usual, “Hey, buddy.”

“I’m here,” says the nothing right next to him. Peter feels out his surroundings and finds a small shoulder to squeeze. 

“Stay close to me,” he whispers to Miles, “no matter what. Shathra’s venom can kill a child, I’m pretty sure.”

“I’m not scared,” Miles’ defiant, but undeniably invisible voice says. “And I’m not—“

Peter shushes him and squeezes him again, then looks over the edge of the building. Nothing. On the ground level, nothing. He crawls on the side of the building, just hoping that Miles is crawling with him, not wanting to give him away. He wants to tell Miles again,  _ there’s no secret child, please keep believing me, _ but he keeps his mouth shut. 

He searches for shadows, irregularities in the reflections of the glass windows. He can hear it, faint buzzing, then the familiar tingle of Spidey-sense again, and he webs out of the way just in time to avoid Shathra leaping over the edge above them and dragging him down. He lands on the balcony of an adjacent skyscraper, searching for Miles. To a mixture of relief and worry, he sees him on the other building, before he throws himself off and webs towards Peter. He’s following Peter’s instructions of staying close, and Peter motions hurriedly towards himself, urging him closer. Then he starts waving his hands in the other direction, or just all about, flailing because he can see Shathra’s antennae, then her wild black hair appear over the edge. As Miles jumps, she leaps into action too.

Shathra sends a barbed sting out of each palm, and the only thing worse than the fierce electric shock of pain that sends Peter buckling is seeing Miles buckle first, with a scream that makes Peter want to cry.

Peter can’t cry. He’s too busy sweating everywhere, in and out of the folds of his suit, the venom turning his full stomach into twisted nausea and pain. He can’t imagine how someone as small as Miles feels. The venom could be killing him right now. 

He’s leaned back, crumpled against the wall. He can’t move, he can’t help but watch as she comes closer, closer to Miles. If this is what fatherhood feels like, Peter Gets It Now, because he’d rather Shathra come to rip his own head off. Not Miles. Not the boy who’s got more potential in his pinky finger than Peter has in his own body. Anyone but Miles. 

Even that’s a little dramatic for Peter, and maybe the poison’s making him delirious. His horror keeps him present.

Shathra stops only a few inches from Miles. 

“What’s your name?” She asks Miles, curiosity evidently overtaking her need to kill. She reaches a long-nailed finger to tilt Miles’ chin up. 

Miles doesn’t answer, and Shathra’s fingers go to his jawline, feeling around. Peter can’t even scream for her to stop; he’s frozen in place as she lifts off his mask, exposing his sweaty freckled face, his curls plastered to his forehead.

Shathra stares down at him, tilting her head. Then, slowly, she turns to look at Peter. 

“Oh, that’s a scandal that I hadn’t even thought of,” Shathra says, a deep laugh bubbling up where that came from. “Oh, I should’ve known you were never above this. What do you need him for, littler spider?”

_ I need him, _ Peter thinks, at first. Then he burns with shame. He should’ve stopped Miles from coming, or at least tried. 

“What on earth could he use you for?” Shathra continues, tapping at Miles’ chin again. “He’s so protective of you. How strange.”

Everything she’s saying sounds awful. Peter doesn’t—he doesn’t think of Miles like that. He respects him. He loves him like a son, one who didn’t deserve a second dad. Why does he keep thinking like this? He’s not Miles’ dad. Now Shathra knows that, too, and while Peter thought nothing else could get more ruined in this universe, here it is. 

“Why do you follow a man like him, baby spider?” Shathra asks Miles, who is glaring at her instead of glaring at Peter, thankfully. “Affairs and mistakes aside, what can he teach you?”

Sweat’s pouring over Peter’s face, the drops stinging his eyes. Maybe tears, too. He blinks them out, the most movement he can muster. 

The next few moments feel like he’s seeing them frame by frame: Miles hand connecting with Shathra’s jaw and holding on as his little body lights up like a blue flare and surrounds both himself and Shathra with jagged lightning. It’s so bright Peter has to squeeze his burning eyes shut, praying everything’s gonna come out okay on the other side. 

When he opens his eyes again, Shathra’s crumpled in a heap, Miles quickly webbing her tied.

Peter tries to move his mouth, tries to ask Miles’ if he’s okay. 

“Uhh,” he manages. 

This is worse than when he’s blackout drunk. Obviously because the risk of dying is just the tiniest bit higher. Miles thankfully hears him, head snapping his way. 

“Spider-Man,” Miles shouts, finishing up tying Shathra’s wrists and still-twitching legs, running over to him. He drops down to his knees next to Peter, still without his mask, and Peter can see etches of worry all over his face. He wants to tell him to put his mask on, wants to ask him how the hell he's moving at all. 

“Ugh,” he manages again. 

“Hey,” Miles’ voice drops lower. He leans close to Peter’s ear to whisper, “she missed the poison. I faked it. I’m fine, I got you. I’ll figure this out.”

Peter can’t even shake his head to protest. All he can do is blink, so he squeezes his eyes shut again. Miles’ hand lands soft against his cheek, his thumb running over Peter’s helplessly clenched jaw. 

“I’m going to turn Shathra in,” Miles says, and Peter doesn’t want that. He wants her to die, not to talk to the police or anyone. The poison makes it easy to think past his normal moral conflicts about killing others, makes him realize it’s a spider eat spider world. “Don’t worry. Once they see her again, they’ll remember. I’ll, uh—I’ll leave a note on her body.”

_ A note,  _ Peter thinks blithely.  _ Dear Police, please don’t believe Shathra anymore. She is fake and Peter is not a cheater or a child predator, okay?  _

He’d laugh, but he can’t. He blinks again. His suit is soaked and he feels like he’s going to shit himself. He’s afraid he’s already pissed himself. 

“You stay put,” Miles says, and Peter’s nostrils flare before he realizes he’s making a joke. He closes his eyes and he’s glad Miles can’t see whatever poor shape his face is in right now. “I’ll be right back. I love you.”

Peter isn’t expecting that last sentence. It sprouts a small bloom in his chest, not enough to counteract any of his cramping muscles, but he still feels it, warm and true, despite the pain. He blinks slowly back at Miles, trying to reflect love back like cats do. Miles looks at him with unmistakable pity, then turns to pick Shathra’s body up. He looks back one last time as he dives over the edge.

Peter closes his eyes. He might just be the one dying. 

 

***

 

Miles doesn’t feel good about turning Shathra into the cops, but there aren’t many other options right now. The cops seem grateful enough, if not surprised. 

“You’re…smaller?” One cop asks hesitantly, scratching below his cap. 

“Uh… I’ve always been like this,” is all Miles manages to reply, before he waves and slings himself out of there as fast as he can. As he leaves, he remembers to look back and shout, “don’t believe anything she says! And try not to get killed! She has poison barbs that she shoots out of her hands!”

The policemen left behind look at each other, then at Shathra’s bundled body. 

Miles is plagued with anxiety. Peter looked to be in awful shape, worse than Miles has ever seen him. He couldn’t even talk, and that’s just not Peter. He’s surprised he can find his way back, before he realizes he’s swung around towards the same building three times. 

Miles’ heart seizes in a panic. He’s lost. Oh shit, he’s lost, he doesn’t know this version of New York. He doesn’t know the difference between Brooklyn and Manhattan—they seem to share the same names, at the very least. Or, Peter’s not some weird alien-type Spider-Man, so how different can they really be? He shakes his head. Focus. He has the perverse regret of not drawing blood; at least that would have left a trail. He needs a higher look down, needs to climb to find the one terraced building with a dying Spider-Man. 

He’s good at finding tall buildings at least, and after a couple, he manages to zero in on a flash of red. The first time it was just someone’s laundry, but Miles can’t take the chance. As he lands on a higher building closer by, he sees the blue. Relief floods his veins.

“Hey,” Miles says, landing clean next to him. There’s no one else there, so he says, still in a low voice, “Peter. Peter, are you alive?”

The chest in front of him hitches slightly, but it’s Peter’s eyes opening that really lifts a weight off Miles’ shoulders. Somewhat, anyway. He’s afraid to peel off Peter’s mask and see what he really looks like, what color his skin would be. 

At least he’s alive. 

“Peter. Um…” Miles frowns, thinking hard. “Do you know anyone who can deal with this stuff? Super poison.”

Peter, to Miles’ despair, just closes his eyes. There’s no way he’s of any use in his current state. Miles just might lose him, the same way he lost the first Peter Parker. And Miles doesn’t know how many Peters there are, and he doesn’t want to find another one, either. Thick, sharp tears prick his eyeballs and soak into his suit with expertly designed ease, and Miles is grateful he’s got something to hide behind. He presses their temples together, like Peter had earlier, back in his apartment. Where the fuck would Peter’s apartment even be? 

Hopeless and out of options, Miles sits and listens to Peter struggling to breathe. He tries to fit himself in between his heavy body and the wall in an attempt to serve as a cushion. Peter’s chest just hitches further and Miles leaves it be. He takes in a deep breath himself, chiding himself for not taking Peter’s mask off. He must be uncomfortable with another layer of skin. It’s Miles’ own damn fear that’s stopping him. He pushes that aside, because it’s selfish, and feels around for the split in the seam under Peter’s jaw. Peter’s eyes open a little as he does that, just a crack. Miles sees his stubbled jaw first, the skin pale but not green at least. But shit, it’s really pale. Peter’s eyes look sunken in, his lips cracked and dry. At least now Miles can see his clearer, albeit still unfocused gaze directed towards him. They still can’t lock eyes, because Miles’ got his mask back on. 

“You’re gonna be okay,” Miles mumbles, “I promise.”

He lays his head on Peter’s shoulder and looks to the sky for answers of any sort. He’s at least grateful he’s not poisoned too. They’d surely die together. The sky stretches high and uncaring, vast in its emptiness. Maybe they still could. There’s no telling if Miles would get as lucky as last time.

He thinks about the articles they’d read earlier, if the newer ones about Shathra would jog anyone’s memory. If they’d be kinder to Spider-Man, knowing he came back —

Miles gasps out loud. Gwen. She’s been here before. Maybe—just maybe she’s returned to check on Shathra. He sits up off of Peter, elation filling every inch the misery left behind, and turns to Peter in excitement. 

“Gwen!” He tells Peter, going to grab him by the shoulders, hands freezing the last second, then landing softly. “Gwen will find us!”

Peter’s eyes crack open, then get progressively wider. Sweat starts beading on his forehead and his jaw’s clenched. Miles can hear his teeth grind as he tries to work his mouth. 

“Nn…” Peter says. 

Miles nods. “It’s gonna be okay, I’m sure she’s gonna come back.” His smile starts to fade as he remembers something: the article was from a couple weeks ago. “I’m sure… I hope she’s gonna come back.”

“No,” Peter whispers, then closes his eyes again, like saying those two letters took everything out of him. 

Miles deflates. Peter’s right. She’s probably not coming back.

“Well,” he says finally, “I’m not going to let you die up here. I’m gonna find a hospital.”

He watches Peter’s face as Peter’s eyes open again. 

“No.” Such conviction in such a weak voice. 

“Then what do you want me to do?” Miles snaps, then feels bad and looks away. “If I don’t, you’re gonna die.”

“Mm-mm,” Peter says. 

Miles huffs in desperate frustration. “Is that another no? You’ve been stung before?”

“Mmm,” Peter replies. He blinks slowly at Miles. 

“Oh,” Miles says, more like blows out in a sigh of relief. “Okay. Well… I still don’t know where you live. I don’t know how to cure this. What do I do? What the hell do I do, Peter?”

It’s terrifying, the way normally bubbly, sarcastic Peter just stares back at him, hair matted to his forehead with sweat, smelling sour with something Miles doesn’t recognize. Miles is alone, but worse than alone. He’s alone with someone practically dead, claims of previous survival hopeful but unreliable, because how does Miles know he’s just not hoping Peter’s saying yes, he’d been stung before?

There are those tears again. Miles swallows a hiccup and curls back against Peter, feeling like he’s been through all stages of grief in one quick sitting. 

“I don’t want to lose you,” Miles whispers against his shoulder, staring hard at a satellite dish two buildings over, “I don’t want to lose you again.”

Maybe that’s selfish to say to Peter B., but Miles feels a weight against his own head. Even that small movement feels like a victory for Peter, a sign that he’s getting better, that he’s going to survive. 

Miles does what his mom always does to him when he has a fever. He takes his hand and raises it to Peter’s face, the side of it that’s not leaning against the top of Miles’ head. He then drags the backs of his knuckles gently down Peter’s cheek. The stubble scratches his skin, but he does it again, wanting so bad to make something a little better, even by the littlest bit. It felt good when his mom’s cool knuckles brushed his skin, and based on how hot Peter feels, it’s gotta feel at least a little good. 

“I got you,” Miles says, even if it’s more to console himself, “you’re gonna be okay.”

Peter doesn’t answer him. 

  
  



	5. Chapter 5

They stay there until it gets dark, Miles’ weight heavy against Peter’s body, looking like he’s sleeping save for his wide eyes. It’s only then when Peter tries to move his mouth and finds a little less tug and pull this time. Miles catches the movement immediately and sits up, facing him.

Peter’s tired and still in pain, but he’s just as relieved as Miles looks when he rips off his mask, eyes darting up and down as he sizes this new development.

Peter croaks, “thirsty.”

Miles slaps his palm to his forehead. “Of course you are. I saw a few stores on my way here. Um… you got cash?”

“Yeah… wallet.”

“Okay,” Miles says, unsure. His hands hover over Peter’s hips and Peter nods, so he starts patting around. Peter tilts his head to try and indicate it’s in a hidden pocket to the left, then closes his eyes, because the light contact feels nice. Just like how Miles’ hand on his cheek felt nice. He remembers that he’s in his own universe just as he sees proof of it: as Miles’ fingers slip into the hidden pocket and he gets a triumphant look on his face, that face and his whole body snaps distorted, splits into technicolor like an old TV malfunctioning. The grinding noise that accompanies it makes Peter wince, all of it just as unnatural as the fact that Miles is bending space and time to be here, taking care of him. Miles falls into his lap, wallet stuck to his palm. He blinks a few times, dazed. Peter remembers that’s never happened to him before.

“Sorry,” he whispers, willing one of his arms to move, but he can only get a few fingers to flex. Still, at least he has his mouth. “You okay?”

Miles blinks a few times, then shakes his head hard. “Yeah? That was weird. Now I guess I know how you feel.” He lifts his hand and the wallet’s still stuck to his palm. “This hasn’t happened in a while. Guess I won’t lose your money, though.”

Peter chuckles again, as much as it hurts. He wants to take Miles into a big hug, tell him how good he is, how unbelievably kind. They’re not the same vein of Peter Parker; Peter’s always tried to be good, and Miles just is. In the same vein, Peter remembers waking up pressed against him. A full-body shudder ripples through him as he imagines Shathra finding them that way.

“I’m gonna get you water.” Miles’ voice breaks Peter out of his thoughts, and he nods. “Be right back. I should’ve thought of this earlier. Sorry.”

Peter watches him leave, thinking, _you shouldn’t have to do any of this._

With Miles gone, and with the threads of delirium threatening to engulf his whole consciousness still, Peter’s left in a bad place with those last thoughts.

He tries to push them away, but it’s like he’s opened Pandora’s box with that earlier thought, like he’s let everything loose in what appears to be just another side effect of Shathra’s poison. Peter hopes.

 _What if,_ Peter’s nasty, horrible mind suggests, _what if he woke up and wanted it? Would you give it to him?_

He can almost feel his skin straining to blush. He doesn’t know where his blood’s gone, but he’s definitely burning on the inside, because _it_ is a new concept.

_Would you eat him out like you do Mary Jane?_

“No,” Peter mumbles out loud, a weak protest that does nothing to cull this sudden, hugely problematic turn. The voice in his head practically cackles at him. Maybe he’s dying and this is some last perverse but necessary application of serotonin trying to make him feel good. And if he is dying, and these are his last thoughts, does that mean he’s going to hell? And if he’s going to hell already, or if there is no hell, should he just indulge in these last moments of pleasure, as fucked up as they are?

He waits for his body to start failing fully, waits for blurred edges of black to start encroaching his vision so he can finally relax. If this is the way it ends, so be it.

But nothing so significant comes. He sees movement out the corner of his eye, a small head popping up over the other side of the terrace edge. Miles has a small plastic bag with him that he brings in front of Peter, peeling his mask back up to his forehead. He starts taking stuff out of the bag. Water, Gatorade, a protein shake, a deli sandwich?

“I’m starving,” Miles confesses, a bit shy about it, putting the sandwich to the side, “I’ll pay you back.”

Peter huffs out a weak chuckle. “My treat.”

Miles unscrews the cap of the Gatorade bottle and lifts it up to Peter’s cracked lips. Peter tilts his head back and Miles slowly pours. Peter drinks a little but his parched throat can’t keep up, so he coughs and it goes down the wrong pipe. His body jerks as he keeps coughing, Miles putting the bottle down while apologizing profusely, dabbing at the spills with his mask in his fist. His mouth is tight, and Peter imagines how hungry and miserable he must be, and how much more miserable Peter feels because of that. Then the misery turns to nausea, and oh fuck, this new liquid sloshing around in Peter’s stomach is begging to come back up.

He moves his fingers frantically, moving his head only inches from side to side, making pathetic noises that Miles, in his everlasting brilliance, interprets correctly. He grabs Peter’s shoulder and hip and turns him around against the wall with a disproportionate strength, and Peter hurls puke down the side of a ten-story building. All he can pray is that no unlucky creature is walking down below, his vision blurry with tears. That mixture of that evening’s pizza and bile would pelt them with a brute force from this height. Nobody needs that. Peter’s shivering as his heaves turn dry, finally feeling the pierce of the cold nighttime air. Their suits usually keep them warm, but it’s not enough right now.

“I’m sorry,” he hears Miles say. He looks behind him and Miles is clutching the bottle, lower lip pulled all the way in between his teeth.

“S’okay,” Peter slurs more than says, “s’okay, Miles. Love you.”

Miles takes in a shallow breath and Peter remembers him crying on the mattress, remembers that’s what started this whole mental fiasco. It wasn’t Miles’ fault for crying, it was Peter’s fault for getting closer. And Peter still doesn’t know why he was crying, and if he should have gotten closer. Wait, no, he probably shouldn’t have gotten closer. Nope.

Peter just wants to run his mouth, to tell Miles all the things he’s good at again, because vigilantism always sparks heavy insecurity, and the pressure of a city shouldn’t fall on a teenager’s shoulders.

Gwen, he thinks, recalling the horror he’d felt when Miles had been so amped up over his potential solution, Gwen’s handling three universes. That shouldn’t be on her shoulders either. He’s glad Miles had misinterpreted him, but the anxiety remains. But why should it? Shathra’s in custody. Miles can just go back now.

“You should go back now,” Peter says, powering through the painful scratch in his throat.

Miles puts the bottle next to Peter, frowning. “Now?”

Peter shrugs. “S’over.”

Miles shakes his head, then sits back and starts unwrapping his sandwich. “You’re such a dumbass, Peter.”

Peter chuckles. It feels good to chuckle, even if it feels actually horrible in his throat. “Thanks.”

“Seriously,” Miles says, and he has what looks like an Italian sub. Peter’s relieved to think it looks good. “Sometimes I think you’re just trying to die.”

“I am,” Peter answers without thinking. The crinkling of the sandwich paper stops, and he doesn’t even have the energy to correct himself. He looks at Miles, who’s glaring down at his sandwich. Shit, he didn’t mean it like that. “Well...y’wanna learn the truth?”

“What’s the truth?”

“Hmm…” Peter considers not saying it, if he even has the energy to say it, if Miles even needs to hear it. He doesn’t. He really doesn’t. “Well...you, Miles—you’re a reason to live.”

“But you just said you’re trying to die.” Peter just knows Miles is waiting to hear that he’s just joking, but they both know the truth.

“I’d never, like… kill myself,” Peter offers. “I’m a coward.”

“Shut up,” Miles says, a venom in his voice Peter didn’t expect. It really is cold up here. He shudders. “You can’t do that. What about Aunt May? Mary Jane? Me? There are too many people depending on you!”

Peter laughs louder. Verbal sparring with a kid is a pleasant distraction right now. “Sound exactly like Gwen.”

“When’d you talk to Gwen?” Miles asks, and boy, this conversation should not be happening. “Are you guys meeting up or something?”

“No,” Peter says with all the force he can muster, “we—y’saw the articles.”

“God, you sound drunk,” Miles says, and it feels so acerbic that Peter’s genuinely hurt. He can’t help it. Something in the poison’s making his hormones go haywire, and to his surprise as much as Miles’, he starts tearing up.

“S’not my fault,” he says, voice cracking, and what the fuck is going on, exactly? Miles looks thoroughly freaked out by this, gripping his sandwich hard. Peter knows how much Miles hates it when he cries. “I didn’t do anything!”

“Jesus, okay, fine!” Miles holds one of Peter’s shoulders as Peter turns his head up to the sky to wish one million deaths on Shathra’s goddamn existence, blinking hard.

“This is why y’should go.”

“I’m not leaving,” Miles says, sidling up against the wall next to him, finally digging into his sandwich. Through a full mouth, he adds, “and I’m not gonna let you die, either.”

“Yay,” Peter sighs, and closes his eyes.

“Wait,” Miles says, snapping his fingers in front of Peter’s face until Peter wakes up again, “wait, you sound a lot better. Where do you live?”

Peter thinks hard, the address fading in and out with all his other essential memories.

“We should try to trace back,” he suggests, and Miles looks around them.

“Lemme gather some energy if I’m going to drag you around,” Miles says, digging out some chips from the bottom of the bag and opening it. “You hungry?”

“Don’t trust gut,” Peter mumbles. He doesn’t even know how his brain is making words, much less the right words. His mind seems to work at least a little, but there’s a paralytic wall in between it and the outside.

*

The sun’s almost up by the time they find Peter’s place and even Peter’s glad to see his old shitty apartment, albeit a tiny bit tidier given his sudden cleaning fit. The window slides up easily and Miles carries them inside, crouching to slowly lower Peter onto the mattress.

“Nice,” Peter says, and a pillow has never felt so good. Maybe it’s because he can feel the poison slowly wearing off, whether through something in his blood or Shathra’s weakness. He actually feels joy. Unless that’s the poison, too. So much for his mind working. “Mmm… I love bed.”

Miles laughs, to his delight. “Yeah, me too. You do really sound kinda ridiculous, though.”

“Shuddup,” Peter says.

“Mind if I shower now? Or are you out of hot water?”

“Go,” Peter says, closing his eyes.

“Okay,” Miles says, “do you like… have any clean clothes?”

Peter scoffs. “Yes. Boxes.”

“I see,” Miles says. Peter tries to sleep and ignore the sickening scrape of cardboard on cardboard as Miles looks through his stuff. Then, he hears the bathroom door shut and the shower turn on.

Peter heaves a sigh of relief. He’s alone again, still feeling that misplaced giddiness. Now that Shathra’s taken care of, they can put this behind them and go back to where Peter can see his lovely MJ again. He can keep teaching Miles things, of course, because there’s still stuff to learn, and Peter can come back a few times a month to check in. And that comment about trying to die won’t even matter, because Peter’s life will be wonderful.

He imagines going back to MJ, who’s probably missed him by now. He imagines touching her, sliding up her shirt to find out she doesn’t wear anything underneath. Things have been going so well, so why does Miles also have to come into the picture all of a sudden? It’s the mixture of his idiocy falling asleep on Miles and the poison, Peter decides. It’s making him think crazy things. He wants to think about Mary Jane in the shower, not his mentee. He shouldn’t be thinking of any of it, but here he is.

He hears the shower stop, which for some reason sets his heart to overdrive.

After a bit, Miles returns to the living room, and Peter’s filled with some unnameable emotion at seeing him wear his clothes. Miles is wearing a sweater that’s obviously too big for him over his leggings—no surprise nothing fit him there.

“Do you need to use the bathroom or anything?” Miles asks suddenly, blunt as ever. Peter supposes it’s a fair question.

“No,” he says, because the last thing he’s gonna let Miles do is wipe his ass. He’d rather lie in his own mess. And besides, as the daylight starts to fill the room, Peter’s body similarly seems like it’s filling up with more energy. He can move his feet now, but everything still feels like a thousand tons.

“Well, uh… let me know if you do.”

“Right.”

They stare at each other in awkward silence. Miles finally slides down the wall across from Peter, reaching for his laptop.

“What’s your password?”

Peter hums. Blunt indeed. “I’ll tell you… if you tell me.”

“Tell you what?” Miles’ brows raise from over the laptop screen.

Peter looks away, at a crack in the wall.

_It’s not a good idea to bring it up. Peter, don’t be a fool and bring it up. You don’t know where it’s going to lead you._

“Why were you crying?” Peter looks back at him.

Miles frowns. “Crying?”

Definitely not a good idea. “Never mind.”

Miles closes the laptop lid. He puts it down and crawls to the mattress, pushing Peter aside. Peter feels too big for his suit, wishes he was in pajamas. Miles looks comfortable, at least, even if he’s staring at Peter with strange, nervous intensity.

“You mean earlier?” Miles asks.

Peter nods, slowly.

Miles swallows. “It wasn’t anything to do with you. I guess I still get sad over Uncle Aaron—and I know it’s been a while—“

“Hey,” Peter says, reaching over to graze Miles’ side with curled fingers, “doesn’t matter. I still cry ‘bout Aunt May.”

Miles nods, offers Peter a small smile. Peter tries to smile back. “Is that it?”

“Huh?” What does that mean? “Yeah… don’t want you to cry.” Fresh paranoia floods Peter’s senses—is he hinting at Peter spooning him? “Sorry, also.”

“Sorry? Why?”

“For…” Peter can’t find the words. Spooning? Cuddling him? Nothing sounds right. He was just trying to comfort him. “Getting in your space.”

“Oh.” Now Miles is looking down, playing with the frayed sleeves of Peter’s sweatshirt. “I—I didn’t mind it.”

Peter blinks heavily. “Oh.”

“It was, um…” Miles chews his lower lip, and Peter’s dying to know what he really thinks. “It was nice, actually. If—maybe if you want, I could—“

Peter thinks he understands even as Miles tries to stutter it out, and the mixture of illness and exhaustion has him craving something exactly like that. “‘Kay.”

“Huh?”

Peter tips his chin down at the space in their bodies. Isn’t that what he meant? If he didn’t, then, Jesus, Peter is even creepier than he thought.

Just as he’s mentally kicking himself, Miles scoots closer in, nudging at Peter to move him onto his side. Skinny arms come around both sides of Peter’s waist, and Miles’ cheek is pressed up against his shoulder blade. Peter closes his eyes.

“Is this okay?” Miles asks.

“Mm-hmm,” Peter responds. Miles reaches down to draw the blanket to their waists, and that’s even better. Peter slides one of his hands to cover where Miles’ hands are clasped over each other. Miles presses in closer when he does that. Peter wants to turn back around, to see his face. “Y’did so good tonight.”

A long pause, then a quiet, shy, “thanks.”

“Really,” Peter adds, “You’re really amazing.”

Miles doesn’t answer; Peter can feel him burying his face into Peter’s back. He chuckles, or maybe just lets a breath out that feels like one. He squeezes the hands he’s covering, and Miles grips him harder, actually pulls Peter back in closer.

“Strong, too,” Peter breathes.

Miles laughs, short and delighted, then deepens his voice as he says, “See, you don’t need to worry. You got a big, strong man holding you together.”

“That’s kinda hot.”

Oh, God.

He.

Did.

Not.

Just.

Say.

That.

Silence, painful silence. Peter’s got his eyes squeezed shut, hand still frozen over Miles’ hands. He’s trying to think of a million excuses, a million ways to take back what he said.

Then, Miles voice, weirdly thick: “Yeah?”

Peter gulps. _No. Not yeah. Not in a million years._ Those are all things he should be saying right now, right? Those are all the things Miles needs to hear, along with a million apologies and a conversation about boundaries.

Miles shivers against him. Peter feels it transfer, ripple through into his own body. He needs to say something. Something responsible. It’s this fucking Shathra brain fog. He’s paralyzed anew.

“Uh…” Peter tries, “sorry. That was—” What’s Miles doing? His hands have unclasped, going up and down over Peter’s belly. “That was…um…”

Miles, to Peter’s everlasting shock and surprise, shushes him. His hands keep moving, soothing, only inches away from Peter’s own trembling fingers.

Some switch has flipped and Peter’s the kid now, being told everything’s okay, that it’s all gonna work out, somehow. That’s what this is—right?

Peter’s body is not on the same page. He’s sweating again, and worse, he can feel himself hardening with each low swipe of Miles’ palm, before Miles squeezes him close and takes in a deep, shaky breath that scares Peter to bits. He’s terrified, but he also doesn’t know how to protest, how to stop this from happening. He can imagine Miles’ furious face as he shouts, _you started all of it._

“Doing okay?” Peter manages to whisper. It feels like a good compromise. Miles is pressed hard into him, literally; Peter can feel a small shock of heat right up against his butt, the reverse of their earlier nap.

“Yeah. You?”

Peter resists the urge to laugh, a great big guffaw with an incredulous, _What the fuck do you_ think?

“I’ve been better.”

Miles’ hands stop, and he draws away, just like that. Peter’s back is cold, now. “Not helping, huh.”

He sounds so sad, so broken about it that Peter puts all his energy into turning his head over his shoulder. Miles is sitting on his knees, brows drawn together, mouth turned down in worry. Peter did this to him, and he wants so bad to make it better. He needs to make it better. Peter tilts his shoulder back towards the mattress and thankfully gravity takes over, letting him fall flat onto his back. Miles’ eyes rake over his body, flitting back and forth between his eyes and the rest of him, Peter bunching up the blanket around his hips because it’s not getting any goddamn better right now.

“C’mere,” Peter says, and Miles is next to him before he can finish, fitting up neatly along his right side. Or is it his left? What’s up, what’s down? “Very helpful.”

Miles tucks his head under Peter’s jaw and puts his hand back over Peter’s belly, scratching it gently like he’s a golden retriever instead of a sad old man. His fingers look so small peeking out from the big sleeve of Peter’s sweatshirt. Then, Miles tilts his head down and presses a small kiss next to Peter’s armpit, the edge of his chest.

Peter’s heart thumps wildly against his ribs. What was _that?_ Miles just rests his head in the same crook after, still petting, scratching, whatever the fuck he’s doing. It’s all dangerously effective, Peter’s knuckles white in the blankets. He supposes it’s only fair to press a small kiss back into Miles’ hair, one that feels like it’s a little too long when he gets caught in the scent of his hair, a hint of his own body wash on Miles’ skin. Miles tilts his head up and Peter’s lips brush over his forehead before they lock eyes, Miles’ face blurry with how close he is. Miles pulls himself up along Peter’s body and leans in and oh holy shit, Miles’ lips are right there on the corner of his mouth, pressing in.

“Oh my god,” Peter whispers, because it’s just a small readjustment after that, and they’re mouth to mouth, gentle and slow. The first thing Peter wonders is just how much practice Miles had, wonders if that pang he feels in his stomach, near his erection but not as good, is misplaced jealousy. Not just jealousy over other people, but jealousy over the fact that they aren’t both teenagers experimenting for the first time. It’s gone quickly when Miles slowly parts his lips, and seriously, how the fuck is this girl-shy kid good at kissing?

Peter’s suddenly so grateful his mouth works, that he can at least drop one hand over Miles’ hip, which makes Miles jerk in surprise. But before Peter can draw it away, his hand lands on Peter’s and presses it in.

Peter kisses one of his hot ears, wanting to say something to make him stop shivering. He could explode, himself.

“You okay?” He asks again. God, he’s so lame. If he had a dime for every single time—

“Uh-huh,” Miles says, sounding far away. Peter’s never heard him like this before. “I’m, uh… I’m dizzy, kind of.”

“Me too,” Peter confesses. His stomach is going to slither out his asshole, that’s how twisted up and low it feels.

More silence. Miles looks back up at him, then away, then back up.

“What is it?” Peter asks.

“When we were napping,” Miles says, and Peter holds his breath in suspense and a little fear as he continues, “you were all pressed up against me.”

“Oh,” Peter says.

“You were big,” Miles whispers.

Peter almost chokes on his own breath. “Oh.”

Miles looks down, his hand hovering over where the blanket’s all bunched up.

“Miles,” Peter says weakly.

Miles draws the blanket down slowly, watching Peter out the corner of his eye. Peter holds onto his hip for dear life as they both watch himself come into view, pressed lewd and obvious against Super-Lycra. As he scrambles for something to say, Miles leans down and kisses him again, for longer this time. His face is just as soft as MJ’s; Peter’s starting to think he really has a thing for freckles. Peter tries to lose himself in it, half-wants the poison to really finish him off after, and only after, this is all over. As Miles runs his tongue inside Peter’s lower lip, his hand runs up the very top of the inside of Peter’s thigh. Then, there are two hot hands on him over his suit, one around his balls, the other sliding up the length of him.

“Fuck,” Peter whimpers. He really could start crying, he’s so overwhelmed.

Miles’ hands stop. “Does it hurt?”

Peter’s laughter at that is sudden and sharp, which does hurt. “No. God, no.” He groans when Miles’ hands start moving again. Slowly, he shifts the arm he’s got nestled under Miles out to the side, dragging it up to cup Miles’ ass and pull him closer. Slowly, Miles grinds against him as Peter lets go of his hip with his other hand to slide it around to Miles’ front.

Miles makes a strangled noise. He’s slender but so stiff in Peter’s hand. He lets go of Peter’s dick and digs his fingers into Peter’s shoulders, leaning up to kiss hurriedly at Peter’s neck as he pushes his hips into Peter’s hand. Peter slides his hand up to Miles’ stomach, palm covering most of it, which is exciting and horrible in equal amounts, and he wishes he was drunk on more than just still-potentially-fatal venom. His fingertips slip into the waistband of Miles’ leggings, and Miles buries his face in Peter’s chest as Peter tugs them down a few inches, just enough to get his palm over something much hotter. Miles’ cock feels like it can burn through the center of Peter’s hand, and Peter’s jaw aches with how hard he’s clenching it. He wants to put his mouth down there, but he doesn’t even have the energy to propose such an idea.

“Fuck,” Miles is whispering, “fuck.”

“Fuck,” Peter whispers in agreement, his other hand on Miles’ ass squeezing and sliding up, slipping under the back of his waistband, too. There, he can kind of meet his fingers in the middle, the tips of them pressing into Miles’ balls while he presses his middle finger into Miles’ crack. Miles moans into his chest and Peter’s about to have a heart attack, one he well and fully deserves. Why’s he so self-aware now? Where did the poison go? Is adrenaline what he needed? How does he get more poison into himself? What’s he gonna do, pull his fingers out and say Sorry again? He definitely shouldn’t keep moving them the way he is, coaxing noises out of Miles that get lewder with each turn, Miles’ toes pushing against his calves.

It doesn’t take much before Miles is panting against him, body jerking against Peter’s in a telltale way as he holds for dear life onto Peter’s wrists. Whether they’re stuck or Miles is just gripping that damn hard, Peter doesn’t know or care, focused on one task and one task only, tongue held between his teeth as he moves his hands with purpose. It takes one last deep press of the edge of his palm into Miles’ balls and Miles’ grip gets bone-splinteringly tight. He rattles off curses even Peter’s too shy to repeat, then reaches up to mouth messily at Peter, pulling him down into a feverish kiss that leaves Peter unable to repeat anything. Something in him feels so helplessly drawn into this, biting hard at Miles’ lips, his jaw, teething at his long neck. He moves his sticky hands up over Miles’ torso, thumbs dragging over his nipples, getting Miles all dirty after his shower. He loses himself and bites hard into Miles’ shoulder over his sweater, enough to make Miles cry out.

Peter draws away, eyes wide, but Miles pulls him back in.

“You can do it again,” Miles says, voice cracked and worn, tired but running on something else.

Peter kisses the cotton of his sweatshirt instead of biting him again, the fabric wet against his lips. Miles reaches in and bites Peter’s neck and Peter jerks back across the mattress with a force he didn’t know he was capable of. He tries to reach up and miraculously, of course miraculously, it’s easy. He touches his neck, trying to feel a welt.

“Shit,” Miles mumbles, and Peter knows they’re thinking the same thing.

“Hopefully won’t leave a mark,” Peter mutters, and now they can’t meet each others’ eyes. Miles crosses his arms, then drops them in surprise as Peter sits up.

“You better?” Miles asks, leaning forward on his hands. Peter glances at Miles’ feet and tries not to cringe at the leggings tangled around his calves, how much he looks like a kid. Shit, he _is_ a kid.

If Shathra knew, she’d be laughing her ass all the way to hell, where Peter’s gonna be waiting, no doubt. All those attempts to ruin his reputation, and Peter went ahead and did her a goddamn favor. Cold panic’s flooded in to replace all previous scents, sights, and sounds, including the one of Miles watching him with such deep concern right now.

“I don’t think I’m dying,” Peter says, and he wishes more than ever that he was, which is saying a lot. “I think I should shower.”

Miles fiddles around with the sleeves of his sweatshirt, Peter’s sweatshirt, and Peter’s got the sudden urge to rip it off, to throw it out the window, a witness to their debauchery gone. Peter’s debauchery. Tenth-rate, billion-rate Peter’s debauchery.

“Are you okay?”

“Stop asking me that.” Peter doesn’t mean to snap. He’s been the one asking it, mostly. It doesn’t feel right to apologize, either. He tries to stand up, wobbling slowly but successfully onto his feet. “I’m gonna shower.”

“You got clean clothes in the box,” Miles offers, and Peter stares straight out the window across from them, and realizes there weren’t any fucking blinds drawn. His heart’s just burying itself deeper and deeper into the acid of his stomach with each passing moment, his boner long gone. It’s so much worse than spooning.

“Thanks,” Peter says.

Miles clears his throat. “Um… you want me to--”

“No.” Definitely not. Peter wants nothing. He wants to unwant.

“Okay.”

Peter’s only got one set of towels, but he uses an old t-shirt from the box, because they’re still slightly damp. He wants to scrub his skin clean off, but he doesn’t get to scrubbing at all. He slides down the wall of the shower, head in his hands, staring at the tiles until his eyes blur.

 


	6. Chapter 6

Miles is left reeling on the mattress, too wired to sleep anything off, too shy to get up and join Peter in the shower. Peter didn’t even look at him after, and the best damn orgasm of Miles’ life is easily tempered by this sick gnawing feeling running marathons through his insides. 

He imagines it: the door unlocked, Peter lost in steam, turning around to welcome Miles in, to let him return the favor. The hazy cloud of lust returns quickly, and Miles puts his fingers to his lips, tracing them, replaying their kiss in his mind. His chin and cheeks burn a little from Peter’s stubble, and he touches the skin gingerly.

There are two windows in Peter’s apartment. Miles gets up and pries open the one they came in through, crawling out. The fresh air, crisp with morning breeze, is especially welcome after how stuffy the apartment got. The draft wasn’t a problem once their bodies heated everything up. Miles gathers his knees together, toes curling over the ledge, and watches the city waking up below. It all looks similar enough to his own that he could just be in a different part of New York—in his universe, anyway. 

Miles sighs, and it lasts longer and goes deeper than he expects. The fresh air doesn’t push out the sick feeling like he’d hoped, doesn’t push out the sudden turn of events after things had gotten good, really good. Peter’s big hands, his big everything around him like that—Miles buries his face in the crook of his arm, feeling arousal push insistent again from a corner of his mind. 

He hears the shower stop, finally, and he doesn’t have to agonize over joining him anymore. He keeps his head down, city noises comforting and familiar still, but his ears are pricked. He hears the door creak open, heavy footsteps pad down the narrow corridor from the entryway, cardboard scraping open. Miles realizes he’s got a mouthful of sweater he’s biting on, and that reminds him of Peter biting his shoulder, how he fucked up by biting him back. Of course that was a stupid idea, Peter’s dating Mary Jane, he’s still dating her now, nothing’s changed. 

“Do you drink coffee?” Peter’s voice surprises him. 

Miles is tempted to lie, because coffee is something adults drink, and Miles is surely adult enough. But he just says, “No.”

“Hmm.” The suctioned pull of a fridge opening. Miles supposes he doesn’t have milk or orange juice that’s worth drinking. The fridge door drops shut quickly, as if to confirm. “Wanna go get breakfast?”

Miles lifts his head and looks behind him, confused. Peter meets his eyes and smiles, easy and simple—like the usual. His hair is damp, and he’s dressed in a hoodie and sweats, looking as casual as Miles doesn’t feel. 

Miles isn’t super hungry yet. That’s a lie, he’s always hungry, especially with the extra calories he’s been burning doing hero work, but food’s not the first thing on his mind. Like, yeah, he’s always thinking about sex, he’s learned it’s normal for teenage boys or whatever, knows all the other guys in his grade talk about it all the time, conversations broken and spattered only with video game references and complaints about school. And guys—Miles never felt any reason to not think about it, had even wrestled with the idea of being gay after a series of clicks down a different path on PornHub. He wasn’t gay, he’d realized, but he wasn’t straight, either. 

Peter isn’t exactly a porn star, but he does remind Miles of amateur sites: handsome older guy with a hairy gut, a hot girl like MJ looking like she’s losing herself in pleasure. He’d fantasized shamelessly about MJ, had always wondered if Peter would object to it, but it wasn’t long ago that he’d also started thinking about Peter, about adding him to the mix. And for some reason, he’d always thought it was more likely for him to mess around with MJ than with Peter. Not that either of those situations seemed especially likely—before now. 

Miles is hungry, but he’s hungrier for Peter. He turns back and slides off the windowsill, landing on the worn carpet. 

“Well?” Peter offers, the smile on his face looking a little more strained with each step Miles takes towards him. “Miles?”

“Okay,” Miles says when he’s close, and he reaches up to hold a fistful of Peter’s hoodie.

Peter doesn’t let himself be pulled down, and his hand comes closed over Miles’ fist. “Buddy...I can’t.”

Miles drops his hand, feeling like he’s been burned. After all this?

“I was thinking,” Peter says slowly, shoving his hands into the pockets of his sweats and looking down, “after breakfast, maybe we could go back. People—well, you’re missed, I’m sure.”

“I told Ganke to cover for me,” Miles mutters. It’s not like there’s much to do here right at this moment, but Miles suspects Peter’s returning with him for someone else’s sake. “Is this because I like, bit you back? Because I’m sorry.”

“Um…” Peter shifts his weight on his other hip in front of him, still staring at his feet. “No. But… you know why it can’t work, right, buddy?”

Miles wants him to stop calling him that, the words themselves already robbing him of his next breath. He holds it in, swallows it, shaky, because he’s already cried enough times in front of Spider-Man. 

“No,” he lies, stubborn, because he wants to hurt him back. “Worked just fine like twenty minutes ago.”

“That was…” Peter’s trying to find the words and Miles is terrified he’s just going to say  _ because of the poison, _ so he grabs Peter’s hoodie again, this time fisting the hem. He jerks it down and Peter buckles slightly, and Miles hears a small rip, somewhere. “Hey!”

“Can’t do me like this, Peter,” Miles says, and he’s proud of how his voice doesn’t waver, how he can look Peter in the eye and how Peter looks everywhere before settling in on him. 

“What do you want me to do?” Peter asks, and he sounds so tired. 

Miles breath catches in his throat before he says,  _ I want to fuck you. _ Because that’s the real truth, the first real answer that comes to mind with the heat of the situation. But he can imagine Peter totally freaking out, and he’s literally holding onto him by a thread already, and anyway, what Miles wants more than that is something he knows he can’t have. So he wraps his arms around Peter’s torso, grabbing hold of what he can, pushing his face into his chest. He can hear and feel Peter’s heartbeat, fast and hard, feels his own rapidly catching up. He can feel that Peter wants this against his stomach. Does Peter want to fuck him, too?

He doesn’t ask or answer, just hikes up on his tiptoes to search for Peter’s mouth, as Peter holds it just out of reach. Miles makes a noise of frustration and half-climbs up him, and Peter’s small, surprised chuckle is enough to make him try again. Peter’s palm comes up warm against the back of his head this time, his other hand reaching down to hold him up by the thigh, and they connect, all the intensity and delight of kissing Peter marred with the fact that just like the first time, Miles is the one making it happen. Miles can’t help himself; all of a sudden, it’s like he’s been affected with poison, with a venom that makes every moment not touching Peter like this kill him just a little more. Peter’s back hits the fridge and he drops his hands to steady himself from sliding all the way down. Miles doesn’t need his help anyway, balancing easy on his legs, trying to give everything he can through his lips, tongue, hands—everything that Peter needs to realize he can have. 

“Christ,” Peter moans into his mouth, and he sounds all choked up, low and tight, like he’s in pain. He said it didn’t hurt, before, but Miles wonders if he’s lying. Peter’s legs give and he slides down the fridge as Miles holds on, shifts himself so he’s sitting down on Peter’s lap by the time they both hit the ground, and wow, yeah, Peter’s big as ever up against Miles’ ass. Miles grinds down on him, trying to mimic something he’s watched a bunch of times but never done. Peter groans again when he does that.

“Miles,” Peter says, and Miles loves hearing his name out of Peter’s mouth. 

“Yeah?” He asks, and he tries to keep his voice as deep as he can. 

“Miles, stop.”

Miles stops cold. He doesn’t get it; Peter’s hard and clearly wanting, his hands on Miles’ hips, his cheeks ruddy and lips kiss-swollen. Miles’ chin burns from his stubble. Miles remembers sex ed in school, all that stuff about consent—is he forcing Peter to do this?

“I’m sorry,” Miles says, and gets off. He stands up, rubbing his eyes. 

“It’s not—hey,” Peter stands up too. “it’s not you.”

“Obviously it’s me!” Miles thrusts his hands down to glare at him.

Peter bites his lip, then lets out a breath that sounds like he’s letting everything go. “I could get in big trouble.”

“So what? You’ve gotten in big trouble before,” Miles says, knowing he sounds stupid and stubborn, because yeah, sure, he knows about age of consent and all that, too, but there are lots of laws they’re not supposed to break that they break all the time. “I—don’t you want to—because I want to… I want to do stuff.”

Peter lets out that half-breath, half-chuckle again, and Miles wants to punch him in the face. He acts like he’s so smart, all this bullshit coming out of his mouth when he doesn’t even know what he’s doing with his own life. 

Peter’s staring at him like he knows exactly what Miles is thinking, and Miles wants to punch that exhausted expression off his face, too, then soothe it, to make Peter let himself enjoy it.

“Don’t you want to?” Miles asks instead. 

Peter looks down at the ground. “Doesn’t matter what I want.”

“It does to me.”

Peter looks back up at him, then scrubs at his own eyes. “If I say yes, it’ll just make things worse.”

“Well…” Miles tries to think of compromises, of ways to get around it; bargains. “Nobody knows who I am in your universe. They couldn’t prove anything. We could—”

“Please stop.” Peter sounds terrifyingly broken.

“Fuck you,” Miles spits. He doesn’t mean to be so harsh; it feels like all the ammo he has. 

“Ha,” Peter says weakly. Miles wants, needs them to fight, but he can’t imagine Peter hitting back. He kicks lightly at Peter’s calf, an unsatisfying compromise. “You should go back now, I guess.”

It’s almost like the two are connected; Miles feels his body stretch unnaturally, hears the electronic grinding noise as his body contorts and the rays of color around him separate into individual hues. He drops to the ground on his knees, feeling sick after another glitch, trying to gauge what it means. Peter kneels down next to him, but doesn’t touch him, and Miles doesn’t even have that one scrap of comfort. 

“Are you—“

“Don’t talk to me,” Miles snaps, wobbling back up to his feet. He throws his sweatshirt off onto the ground and stomps towards the bathroom to grab his drying suit. The dampness of Peter’s last, long shower left his shirt not fully dry, but he slips it on, pulls the mask over his face immediately. He strides towards the window and opens it again, then remembers he doesn’t know where the collider is. It’s fine, he thinks, he’ll find it somehow. He found Peter, after all. 

“Wait,” Peter says, catching on, straightening, “Miles! Let me come with you!”

Miles drops the window behind him, half-hoping it cracks, and starts sailing out. He doesn’t know where he’s going, in fact, but is going faster with each building, feet landing and picking up speed. It’s only when he sees something familiar out of the corner of his eye, something he saw in the articles just last night, white and purple; Miles skids on his heels and turns around. 

Over the corner of a higher apartment building, at the edge: it’s her. Gwen. She seems to be peering at him with the same sort of mix of confusion and recognition, her head tilted.  

“Hey!” Miles shouts, hand next to his mouth, “Good morning!”

Gwen jumps over the edge of the building and flings her way down, landing quietly next to Miles. Miles stands up and they hug, Gwen squeezing him tight. She’s a welcome sight, and Miles wishes so badly that he could talk to her about all this. 

“What are you doing here?” Gwen asks, her white eyes wide and disbelieving. “Why are you in Peter’s universe?”

“Can ask the same for you,” Miles retorts, and can’t help but ask, “how come you guys have been meeting up without me?”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“The articles. You were here a couple weeks ago, too!”

Gwen pulls up her mask, brows together. Miles pulls up his own, mouth turned down. 

“It’s a long story,” Gwen says.

“Well then, so’s mine,” Miles replies. 

“I just came to check in,” Gwen says, “you guys beat Shathra?”

“I beat Shathra,” Miles corrects, because Peter doesn’t deserve the credit, “Peter just got poisoned.”

“Wow,” Gwen says, “good job, Miles!”

“What do you mean you just came to check in?” Miles crosses his arms, his joy at seeing her muddled with all these secrets. 

“Okay, fine,” Gwen says, sitting down cross-legged on the ledge, “I know it’s like, none of my business what happens in universes that aren’t mine, but things have been good enough in mine that I got curious. And I thought Peter would go back after Kingpin’s arrest, but he’s been sticking around in your universe for ages.”

“Oh,” Miles says.

“And since the collider’s still up, I figured I’d check in. And Miles, the city’s been in some shit. Even without Shathra.”

“I saw the articles,” Miles says glumly. 

“So I went back to your universe, tried to get Peter to wake up about it, and he spouts some BS about you needing him.” Miles looks up at her when she says that, but Gwen doesn’t seem to notice. “And we all know that’s not true—it’s obvious to you now too I’m sure, if  _ you _ beat Shathra.”

“He said I need him?”

“Yeah!” Gwen gives him a look like she’s offended for him. “And it’s so obvious that  _ he _ needs  _ you _ : like, some new, big-eyed wonderboy he can play out all his mentor fantasies on.”

“Mentor fantasies?” Miles repeats quietly. 

“I legit think he’s having some mid-life crisis, and since he can’t afford a Corvette, he’s ignoring all his own problems and hanging out with you.”

“It’s not just me,” Miles says, “Mary Jane’s there, too.”

“Oh my god,” Gwen says, shaking her head, “see what I mean?”

Miles nods, lost in thought. What she’s saying, Miles and MJ as outlets—it makes sense. 

“Well,” Gwen says after a long pause, “should we get back? Where’s Peter, anyway?”

***

The creepiness of espionage is always an unfortunate requirement of vigilante heroism, or any sort of real detective work. It’s there to learn things that must be known. And Gwen and Miles talking about Peter, Peter figures, is just one of those things that must be known.

At least that’s what he thinks to justify perching awkwardly behind a particular telephone pole he’d leapt behind when he’d seen Gwen. This is stupid—this is Peter’s universe, after all. But he can’t move; he doesn’t want to interrupt, even if he’s terrified as to where the conversation might turn. Shit, he hadn’t even thought about that. 

He’s a little more okay with it turning to just how pathetic he is, but he’d stupidly thought the conversation between Gwen and him would be private. It’s not like Gwen owes him. 

“I dunno,” Peter hears Miles say, “probably back at his place. I was just looking for the collider.”

They stand up and leave, and Peter figures he wasn’t noticed, hopes to death he wasn’t, anyway. 

*

MJ’s happy to see him, but asks why he didn’t text her back, and Peter tries to explain things without really explaining them. They have dinner, Italian takeout, and then they watch a movie, some drama sci-fi. Peter kisses the top of her head; she smells like fruit shampoo.  

“How’s Miles?” MJ asks at one point. It makes sense she’d be curious, the three of them having gone to brunch or lunch on several occasions. 

“Good,” Peter says, and tightens his arms around her. He holds onto her like a lifeline, both physical and mental, knocked down by the anxiety-ridden thoughts just hearing Miles’ name produces. “Really learning.”

“That’s good,” MJ says, rubbing the outside of his arm. Peter wonders if they’re thinking the same thing. Yes, MJ knows Peter as Miles’ teacher of sorts, giving him the guidance her late husband was supposed to give. So Peter staying here isn’t as much of a perversion as it is the universe, literally, giving him a way to fill in the gap. 

But for how much longer? Especially now?

“Still got a bit to learn, of course,” Peter adds, and MJ nestles in closer to him. That conversation can be postponed for another time, especially when MJ turns up her face and kisses him, and the movie is quickly forgotten. 

“What’s this?” MJ runs a finger down his neck. 

“Imp tried to kill me,” Peter offers in hasty explanation, and somehow, miraculously, she doesn’t push it. She tips her head back, and Peter leans in to leave marks of his own—to her immediate duress. 

Throughout it all—hiking MJ’s shirt up, her sweats down, Peter bending low, trying not to scrape her with his stubble while he uses his mouth again to bring her over the edge, Peter still feels tense. And of course, of fucking course, during that, Peter thinks about how he was gonna suggest taking Miles into his mouth, how he at least didn’t do that. Even if Miles tells anyone, Peter pushed him off—after jacking him off. Peter tries to forget it, both hands kneading MJ’s breasts as he comes up for air and more kisses. MJ takes him into her hands and starts pumping him, and Peter keeps his eyes open for fear of his own imagination. When she puts him in her mouth, he falls back against the cushions. He comes quick and rough, trying to warn her with a weak hand on her shoulder. Then, once he’s gathered his senses, he finishes helping her out, all the while filling as much of his vision as he can with her, and nothing else. 

*

Peter doesn’t stay the night, even after MJ asks him to. He nuzzles her neck, kisses her goodnight, then heads back to Aunt May’s, who’d been blessedly casual about his return. Peter doesn’t know how time passage works across dimensions, but it doesn’t seem like much happened while they were gone. 

Once in his room, Peter gets the craving to play a certain game and sees that he still has the Switch on the shelf below his TV. No doubt Miles is missing that right now. No doubt he doesn’t want to talk to Peter about it. Still, he probably wants it. 

A knock on the door. Gentle, respectful. 

“Come in, Aunt May,” Peter says, sitting down and taking a controller into his hands. He turns on the Switch as Aunt May comes in. 

“Hi Peter,” Aunt May says, hovering besides the bed, “May I sit down?”

Peter glances from the TV to her. “Yeah, of course. It’s your house.”

Aunt May smiles at him, then takes a seat on the bed. She doesn’t speak, and Peter can’t concentrate on the game he’s fired up, so pauses it and puts the controller down. 

“Peter,” Aunt May says, and Peter’s heart beats staccato as she takes forever to find her words, “I ran into Mary Jane the other day…”

“Oh,” Peter says, trying to sound casual, “you did, huh?”

“I don’t mean to pry into your personal life, dear, but all this travel must be wreaking some sort of havoc on your body.”

“I feel fine,” Peter lies through his teeth. 

Aunt May hums, unconvinced. “It’s not that I don’t enjoy having you around. You know it’s been great for me. But… do you think it’s the wisest thing to keep up this back and forth?”

And here it is again, one more person telling him to go the  _ fuck _ home. Peter’s gaze drops down to his feet and he just wants to curl in bed, and he sighs. 

“Don’t you think,” he asks, “that something like colliders should mean we should all go to each others’ universes? Total coverage—imagine the possibilities.”

Aunt May shrugs, palms coming up slowly. “I don’t know, Peter. All I know is that this must be taking a toll on you, and I just don’t know how fair it is to someone like MJ, who may still be caught in grieving…”

Peter scoffs. She doesn’t know the worst of it. “Okay, well… I know all this. But thanks, I guess, for the advice.”

“Don’t be upset, Peter,” Aunt May says gently, but in a tone that Peter knows means she won’t budge on this opinion, “are you hungry? I have some leftovers I can heat up.”

Peter’s stomach growls at the thought, and his sadness grows at Aunt May’s understanding smile. His universe doesn’t have leftovers late at night, doesn’t have an Aunt May. Doesn’t have Mary Jane, doesn’t have Miles. At this point, where has he forged more connections?

“That sounds good,” Peter says.   
  
  



	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i apologize for the long wait -- hopefully this extra-long chapter is worth it!

It takes a few weeks for routine to settle in again, even down to the petty robberies every night. Miles has been taking care of it himself, and just himself. Sometimes the police are there, but they tend to just get in the way, and Miles is responsible for more lives than just his own. It feels good to dispatch stuff by himself, but it’s not the same. He’s used to Peter shadowing him, critiquing his form, praising his style. They crack jokes about the guys they fight, building off each other easily. Their rapport makes a long night like this one breeze by, before Miles even realizes just how tired he is.

Miles feels peculiarly exhausted tonight. He’s followed a kidnapping back to what looks to be their hidey-hole: a warehouse on a side of town even Miles hasn’t really seen until now. He watches the doors of the van slide open, with two heavy set men dragging out two tied up women.  They’re still alive, based on their struggling and sobbing, which Miles winces at. He wants to attack right now, but wisdom of experience—and Peter—has taught him to wait for a better opening, to scope out everyone there so he can stealth them out one by one. A cold night wind rips past him, grazing his skin under the thermal layers of his suit. He crawls to the other side to get a better look, then fades invisible. He moves closer in, following the kidnappers in through the locked door, sliding past in the last minute.

Inside the warehouse: tons of crates, like the ones Miles sees on shipping docks, stacked like building blocks. There are tons of them, large and rectangular, ominous in their symmetry. Miles swallows with dread as he thinks about what—or who—might be inside them. One of the cronies unlocks the door of the nearest crate, then slides it open with a sickening metallic scrape. The others start dragging the women towards it, and Miles has to intervene before it’s too late.

He starts out with a sweeping kick to knock the feet out from a gunman behind the men dragging the women, then slaps a hand over his mouth to muffle his shouts. He chokes him out quickly, still undetected, all good. He moves in to grab another, yanking him down by the hood of his sweatshirt.

Then, a loud bang.

It’s not like in the movies, nobody telling him to freeze, no warning like that. It never is. It’s just one bang that at first, Miles doesn’t feel. He crumples to the ground before the pain starts searing through and wonders, how did he miss it? He was invisible. He’d checked the perimeter. He’d beaten Shathra, a powerful otherworldly creature, basically single-handed. Shathra wasn’t the first creature he’d defeated, either, but Miles has been off his game. Obviously.

He feels around, the pain sharpest in his abdomen, looks down and thank fuck, thank God he’s invisible again. There’s at least that, confirmed by all the screams of, _Where the fuck did he go, where the fuck is he now?_

Miles scrambles, bleeding, into a corner of the warehouse, watching the men look around, shooting bullets that miss him by inches. He’s afraid to move, surrounded by pockmarked aluminum and concrete. He’s got a hand clamped onto his abdomen; he knows his blood isn’t invisible on the ground.

Vigilantism has its price. Maybe he’ll pay it today. Part of him just wants to wait. Isn’t that how it goes? When the house is crumbling around you and there’s no foreseeable escape, you sit inside and wait. That’s from some movie. Or a book. He can’t remember which one. He squeezes his eyes shut.

He hears more shouting, then some clattering. With one eye open, he peeks. One guy, holding a mean-looking custom AK, is immediately webbed to the concrete ground, his gun quickly confiscated by none other than the Other Spider-Man. Miles swallows his gasp, curling deeper into his corner. The other guy gets the same deal as the first, the victims still screaming, pleading for help, made only more excitable by Spider-Man’s presence. They’d probably lost hope after Miles.  

One by one, the rest of the kidnappers are quickly apprehended. Miles has never seen Peter work like this, as a total bystander. Peter’s not like the other Peter, the one Miles met only briefly and admired for much longer, but he’s just as good. Miles can’t help him—he resists the urge in his bones. He knows it’s not safe to move. Still, he wants to get up, to make sure no one’s there to flank him, like some guy who was on a restroom break with his gun, returning to see the source of the noise.

The scuffling stops. The apprehended men squirm under thick, sticky ropes of web. Their guns lay in a pile on the other side of the room, also trapped under web.

“I think that’s everyone. You ladies okay?”

Miles’ shoulders sag at the sound of Peter’s voice. He watches him approach the victims, soothing them as he frees them.

Miles and Peter haven’t spoken for so long. Miles knew he hadn’t left yet. He’s not proud of it, but he’d webbed by Mary-Jane’s place a few times, maybe a couple more than a few. He would, again and again, tell himself it was just coincidence, that it was just on his way home. He’d ignore the (those times metaphorical) stab to his gut every time he saw Peter in there. He’s not proud to admit he’s cried about it.

Peter guides the victims outside. Not long after, sirens blare in the distance. Miles should leave, but he doesn’t know if he should move.

“Hey. It’s okay.” Peter’s back inside the warehouse. His voice echoes through. He’s talking into the wrong direction. Miles is still watching from the corner, the pain blurring his vision. “Hey. Buddy? You in here?”

Miles croaks, “yeah.”

Peter whips his head in his direction and Miles lets himself be shown, or maybe just runs out of energy to hide any longer. Peter’s eyes widen like dinner plates and he’s close in an instant.

“I didn’t know,” Peter says, “I didn’t know you were shot. Christ, I would have—“

“It’s fine,” Miles says, “I’m still alive, I think.”

“Oh, god,” Peter says, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry!”

“It’s fine,” Miles repeats.

“It’s _not_ fine,” Peter says, “let me see.”

Slowly, Miles lifts his hand. There’s a lot of blood. He can feel it even if it’s hidden by the dark, absorbent material of Miles’ suit. There’s a small hole where the bullet punctured through.

“Must be some kind of armor-piercing type,” Peter mutters, more to himself, “these guys aren’t fucking around. Let’s get out of here before the cops try to take a witness statement from me. I’m trying to lie low.”

Miles wants to make a snappy, even rude comment in response to that, but he’s lightheaded. He lets Peter pick him up, hissing through his teeth as the pain sears through again.

“Sorry,” Peter mumbles again, and Miles remembers telling him not to apologize so much. Being held against Peter’s chest comforts and sickens him at the same time. “I’ll try not to jostle you too much.”

Miles closes his eyes, and finally lets himself go.

*

When he wakes up, he’s in Peter’s bed at Mrs. Parker’s house. It’s light outside. His torso’s bandaged up and a quick peek under the blanket confirms that he’s naked from the waist down. Makes sense, but he’s still embarrassed about it. Miles tries to roll onto his side and his body protests immediately. He stares up at the ceiling instead, then at the TV. He sees his Switch. He’s been meaning to ask Peter for it, but didn’t know how to approach the subject. Maybe he’ll just take it with him when he leaves, which is hopefully soon.

The remote’s next to him on the dresser, so he takes it and turns on the TV. He settles in on Dr. Fill, an overly dramatic daytime talk show. Some mom’s up there crying over her disobedient son. Miles thinks of his own mom, how horrified she’d be to know he’d been shot. She’d be horrified to hear even one-tenth of it. He’s done a good job of balancing the two lives, but damn, it’s tiring. He plans on breaking the news eventually; he just can’t find a good time. They think he’s still just a kid. Everyone thinks he’s just a kid.

During the commercial break, Miles hears a knock on the door and turns his head. It’s Mrs. Parker in the doorway.

“Good to see you’re awake,” she says. There’s a warm smile on her face.

“Yeah,” Miles says, smiling back hesitantly, the urge to deepen himself into the covers growing.  She’s holding her purse and a small grocery bag, which she brings into the room.

“I got some things for you,” Mrs. Parker says, pulling out more gauze, disinfectant, and a couple of candy bars that Miles takes gratefully. “I was worried you’d be out for longer, but your body’s just healing. You’re gonna be just fine.”

“How do you know?” Miles can’t help but ask.

“It’s something in your veins,” Mrs. Parker replies, sitting down on a chair next to the bed, “you don’t know how many times my Peter got shot.”

It wasn’t a gun that did him in. Miles looks down.

“I wish I could’ve gotten to know him better.”

Mrs. Parker lets out a soft sigh. “Oh, me too. Very much so.”

They sit there in silence, watching the show as it returns from break.

“Thanks for taking care of me,” Miles says finally.

Mrs. Parker looks back at him. “Of course, honey. When Peter brought you in, I… well… you’re like another nephew to me. We were both so worried about you.”

“Thanks,” Miles mumbles. The question he wants to ask lingers in the air. Mrs. Parker thankfully gets it.

“Peter’s out wrapping things up with the kidnapping,” Mrs. Parker adds quietly, “but you can stay here for as long as you need. Okay?”

Miles nods. “Okay.”

“Okay.” Mrs. Parker smiles again. “I’m going to go downstairs and make some tea. Holler if you need anything, please.”

“Will do,” Miles says. “Um… actually, could you pass me the Switch?”

*

He plays for a while, using one of his old saves. It helps him forget, distract himself from everything until he hears a knock on the door.

This time, filling up the doorframe, it’s Peter. His mask is off, a crooked smile on his face that Miles looks away from, back at the screen.

“Hi,” Peter says.

“Hi,” Miles replies.

Peter sits on the chair Mrs. Parker was sitting on before. “How are you feeling?”

“Okay,” Miles says, unable to look at him. He mashes the buttons on his controller, dies, then pauses the game. “Better, I think.”

“That’s good,” Peter says. “I brought you some food on my way back. It’s downstairs.”

“Thanks,” Miles says.

“Want me to bring it up?”

“Sure.”

Miles stares at his lap as Peter leaves, feeling like an intruder. Peter must be exhausted, and he can’t even lie down in his own bed—relatively speaking. It’s big enough for the two of them to lay close together, kind of like Peter’s shitty mattress. Miles lets go of the controller—his fingertips are cold from gripping it so hard.

He hears the stairs creak heavily as Peter makes his way back up. Then, Peter holds a fast food bag in front of Miles.

Miles takes it eagerly, hungrier than he realizes. He takes the burger out of the bag, then hesitates. “Do you mind if I eat in your—“

Peter chuckles. “Of course not.” He sits back down in the chair, and Miles offers him the controller. Peter starts playing as Miles digs in, several fries at a time, and it feels just like it always did. Except for the fact that Miles is still irredeemably uncomfortable.

There’s something heavy hanging in the air between them, conversations undiscussed that still makes it hard for Miles to stare at Peter instead of past his shoulder. He eats in silence, and Peter doesn’t offer up much besides soft curses as he avoids and then fails to avoid death.

Miles crumples up his wrapper in a tight ball, then checks the bag again. Peter got him two burgers.

Miles’ heart fills with certainty: he loves Peter. Peter must love him, too, to know to do that. He must.

“Peter,” he says.

“Mmm?” Peter replies.

“I… uh… thanks for saving me.”

Peter pauses the game to look at him, and Miles forces himself not to break eye contact. It’s dangerous, because now he can’t look away. Neither does Peter, the two of them frozen in an impromptu staring contest nobody’s keeping track of.

Then, Peter quietly says, “I didn’t save you. I failed.”

Miles frowns. “You didn’t fail. I would’ve died, probably.”

Peter breaks his gaze to look down at his feet, and Miles wants him to look back up, please. “I think your Peter would’ve made sure you didn’t get shot at all.”

“My Peter?”

Peter shrugs.

“Mrs. Parker said he’s been shot a bunch of times,” Miles counters, “and besides… you’re ‘My Peter.’”

Peter scoffs. “By default.”

Miles shakes his head fervently, which hurts something in his chest. He winces, and Peter whips his head back at him like he felt it in his own body.

“Not by default,” Miles says, then whispers, “you’re the only Peter I want.” Peter’s hands clench into fists over his knees. Miles continues, “I fucked up tonight because you weren’t there. It’s not as good without you. I don’t care about anything else, it’s — it’s not as good without you.”

“What isn’t?”

“Everything,” Miles answers honestly.

Now it’s Peter’s turn to shake his head. “You don’t know what hearing that does to me, kid.”

Miles bites his lip. “Shouldn’t it make you happy? Gwen said you wanted to be needed.”

He expects Peter to challenge him on that, to maybe get angry at him, but Peter just nods slowly.

“Yeah,” Peter says, “but it’s not true. And if you’re just telling me that to make me feel wanted—“

“No,” Miles insists, “that’s not why I’m saying it! I do want you!”

“Quiet,” Peter hisses, but his ears are red, now, “we talked about this, Miles.”

“I know you want me too,” Miles hisses back, “I know you love me too.”

“Of course I do. I never said I didn’t.”

Miles huffs and sinks down into the pillows. He’s got no answer for it. He’s exhausted all over again, doubly so, and his stomach throbs with pain. Despite all that, something else down there throbs, too, with that same need.

“I just don’t get it.”

“Me neither,” Peter says, “you could do so much better than me. You had someone so much better than me.”

“I want _you_ ,” Miles repeats, “with all your shitty qualities.”

Peter lets out that condescending-ass chuckle again. “You sure you didn’t get shot in the head?”

“I’d be dead,” Miles answers flatly.

“Some people survive it. Bad joke.”

Miles does not want to cry again but feels it on the horizon because of the hopelessness of it all. He’s helpless. Everything about this hurts more than a bullet ever could.

“I hate you,” he says instead.

“I know,” Peter says.

“No,” Miles says, “you don’t.”

“I hate myself more than you ever could, so yeah, I think I do.”

“Get over yourself,” Miles snaps. Instead of crying, he flings the burger at the TV. It hits it with such a force that it bruises the LED, leaving an ugly mark as it falls to the ground. “It’s gotten so fucking old.”

Peter stares at the discarded burger and then up at the mark on the TV, but doesn’t yell at him for it. Somehow, that just makes Miles hate him more. It just hammers home that he’s out of options, that there’s nothing he can do to make Peter reach under the covers and touch him the way he wants so badly to be touched. All he’s going to do is apologize and keep putting on this shitty garbage _poor me, I’m so depressed, nobody can love me but I sure can fuck other people._

“Maybe you shouldn’t date MJ either,” Miles adds coldly.

“Miles,” Peter says. Miles has struck a nerve, so he presses in harder.

“It’s unfair to her,” Miles adds, “it’s unfair. You can never be _her_ Peter.”

“I know that.” Peter’s voice is tight. “What are you doing?”

“How come you’re selfish enough to fuck her, but you won’t fuck me?”

“Jesus Christ,” Peter hisses, “Jesus Christ, Miles, my aunt’s downstairs!”

“I don’t care,” Miles says, his voice getting louder. Peter clamps a hand down over his mouth. Miles licks his palm. Peter makes a face, but doesn’t remove it.

“Stop it.” Peter says, gritting out each word. “Please. You’re hurting me.”

“Good,” Miles says, muffled, glaring at him over Peter’s hand.

Peter closes his eyes for a long moment, then opens them again. His brows are tightly furrowed, his eyes shades darker than normal. Miles is still glaring at him, trying to push through more hurtful words through his eyes.

Slowly, bizarrely, Peter leans down to kiss his own knuckles on the hand over Miles’ mouth. He stays there for a moment that feels longer than it probably is. Then, he draws back and pulls his hand away, wiping it down the side of his suit.

“I’m gonna leave you alone,” Peter says. Before Miles can formulate an answer, his mask is back on and his window’s slid open, and he’s gone.

Miles takes the pillow next to him, and uses it to muffle his frustrated scream.

*

Peter doesn’t come back that night. Mrs. Parker asks about him when she comes up with some dinner, and Miles doesn’t have an answer for her. They both look at the window, still open, a mild breeze airing out the room, and Miles just wants to get up and leave through it. Instead, he blinks back angry, stubborn, helpless tears as Mrs. Parker changes his bandages.

 

***

 

“Hey,” Peter says into MJ’s shoulder, pressing a soft kiss into it. They’re in bed, the covers strewn to the side because it’s a warm night. Even Peter’s body curled over hers feels a bit hot, tacky with their sweat, but he doesn’t want to pull away.

“Mhmm?” MJ replies, her voice low, relaxed with impending sleep.

Peter swallows the more roundabout sentences he’s got floating around in his head, and just goes for it. “What if we got married?”

MJ laughs. Peter tries not to cringe.

After a moment, MJ asks, “Wait, are you serious?”

“Yeah,” Peter replies. He can’t keep the offense taken out of his voice.

MJ turns around in his arms and cups his face. Her hands are warm and dry. “You are serious.”

“Uh, yeah,” Peter says.

“Peter… how would I introduce you to my parents? They’d freak out. Everyone would freak out.”

“It’d be fine,” Peter says with this false, desperate confidence that surges through his bones, “it’s a coincidence.”

“Peter…” MJ repeats, “you know it wouldn’t work.”

“We could elope,” Peter suggests.

“You know,” MJ says, dragging her fingers over the knuckles of Peter’s hand around her stomach, “I’m kinda worried about you.”

“Why?” Peter asks.

“Don’t be defensive,” MJ says, “I just don’t understand how this stuff works.”

“I know what I’m doing,” Peter lies.

“I love you,” MJ says, the words sweet and airy she adds, “but I know the circumstances. It just would never work, babe. The laws of physics. You know.”

“It would work,” Peter says stubbornly, “because I love you too. And love lets you make it work.”

“Hmm,” MJ responds, but it’s clear from her voice that she’s unconvinced. She’s got this sad smile on her face that makes Peter feel like dirt. It’s pity, he thinks, on her face; pity at Peter’s miserable goddamn life. Everyone looks at him with that mixture of pity and concern, save for Miles, who last had been looking at him with unconcealed hatred.

Peter lets go of her, then rolls over to face the window. “Okay.”

MJ wraps her arms around his waist, then presses her cheek against his bare shoulder. “Let’s see what happens, how about that?”

Peter shrugs, her rejection stinging like venom.

 

***

 

It’s taken Miles a week and a half to move around without a stitch in his side, though the literal stitches remain, and two weeks for him to start leaping off buildings and landing on balconies again. He’s stopped by home, managed to hide the wound even if his mother peered at him with some all-knowing suspicious look the whole time. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but Miles knew she was suspicious of _something_. His dad, for a change, was blissfully obvious, telling Miles all about the kidnapping instead, much to Miles’ chagrin.

“Two Spider-Mans,” Miles’ dad said, the wonder in his voice brand new, “Spider-Men? Yeah, who’d have thought?”

This weekend, Miles is in the dorm alone. Ganke’s off visiting his family for some reunion or something, and Miles doesn’t feel like sneaking out or sneaking anyone in. He reads Ganke’s comics on the top bunk in an ongoing quest to distract himself and ignore his homework. As if homework, college, all that stuff really matters when he could die any one of these nights. After that close call, classes just feel less important. Then again, many villains moonlight as scientists. That takes like, at least twice the amount of school that he figures he needs to go through, and even that’s mostly just to please his parents. He wishes they’d teach things relevant to him, like how to deal with gunshot wounds, for one. There’s always the Internet, at least.

He’s so absorbed in a Transformers issue that a knock on his window scares the daylights out of him. He thinks it’s a bird at first, maybe one stupid enough to keep smacking into the window over and over again.

Then, he hears his name, mostly muffled through the glass.

“Miles!” It’s Peter. The rapping on his window continues. “Open up!”

Anger boils inside him at just how brazen this all is: how dare Peter come by like nothing’s wrong? Why the fuck is he so loud? And why’s he coming by at midnight?

As soon as he sees him, though, he knows why.

Even in the shadows, Peter looks unkempt—more unkempt than usual. As Miles slides up the window, Peter’s hand shoots up under it and pushes it up along with him. He stumbles inside, falling onto Miles in the process.

Peter smiles down at him with a crooked, unfocused grin, on all fours over Miles, who’s sprawled out on the floor. Peter reeks with that dull, in parts sour, scent of alcohol. Miles has smelled it on enough drunks he’s hauled off to the cops or the ambulances. It’s dangerous when the smell permeates everything else, he knows that much.

“Hiiii,” Peter drawls.

Miles twists and slides out from under him, a little shaken. He’s seen Peter drunk several times before, even when he’s feeling sad. It’s always a little nerve-wracking, like seeing your dad get in a fight with a stranger, but not like this. The Peter who stays there for a moment, then falls to his side with a heavy thud, is different.

“Damn, Peter,” Miles mutters. Peter’s hand searches for him, then lands on his thigh.

“I’m really drunk,” Peter says, “I knocked on the wrong window. But I—ugh—I realized before they saw me, ha.”

Miles stares at Peter’s big hand on his leg. Peter squeezes, then looks up at him with slow-blinking eyes.

“Why are you here?” Miles asks. Peter’s hand starts moving back and forth, up and down his thigh. Miles is both eager and a little grossed out at being clumsily palmed like this. It feels like groping, something invasive yet impersonal. But he’s been wanting to be touched—touched by Peter, especially—for so long.

“‘Cause you need me,” Peter slurs. He pulls himself up and leans over Miles’ torso again. Miles turns his face to the side, unable to take the stench. “I missed you. And I’m too—too drunk t’go home.”

“Missed me? You haven’t even tried to contact me.”

“I know. Sorry.” Peter’s mouth lands against Miles’ cheek, his weight bending Miles over backwards, bringing him down backfirst into the floor again. He moves his lips sloppily down to Miles’ neck, his breathing heavy and harsh, like he’d just ran up the side of the Empire State Building and back down. Miles is a little nauseated. He can feel Peter’s boner against his leg, wonders about the all he stories of alcohol and whiskey dick he’s heard of, but one thought keeps himself painfully sober.

Once Peter’s slept it off, he’s going to regret this.

Once he’s no longer drunk, he’s going to do exactly what he did before.

Miles doesn’t deserve that—but is he too stupid to tell him that?

“Hot,” Peter is saying, Miles now shivering under him, “you’re so fucking hot, buddy. God.” A rustle of clothes—Peter’s really just palming himself through his sweats right now. He kisses at Miles’ collarbone, tongue tracing over it, and Miles is hard too, unbearably so.

“You’re so fucked up,” Miles mumbles in this small voice he hates, “you like, don’t even know what you’re doing right now.”

“I know what I’m doing,” Peter replies, the confidence in his voice almost convincing, “But yeah, I’m fucked up, ‘cause I wanted to do this from—from forever ago. You’re so hot…”

“Really?” If Miles could punch his own meek-ass voice, he would.

“Fuck, yeah,” Peter says, tilting his mouth up to kiss Miles. It’s just as sloppy as he was on Miles’ neck, Miles’ cheeks and chin covered in spit, Peter’s tongue everywhere, filling Miles’ mouth. It’s worse even than when he felt the venom, which makes Miles feel even shittier—that they’d messed around when Peter was poisoned in a different way. Miles was more in control that time, and he doesn’t know if that’s better or worse. Peter keeps touching himself, and Miles doesn’t know how to tell him to stop—doesn’t want to tell him to stop.

Peter starts kissing down his chest, losing momentum with each inch downwards. He gets to where Miles is still recovering, stitched up, and pauses.

“Oh, man,” he says. He traces around it with his thumb, lays his head on the opposite side of Miles’ stomach.

“What?”

Peter doesn’t answer. His eyes are now closed. Miles shifts his hips up to jostle his head.  Peter’s head bobs but his eyes stay shut. He’s stone-cold knocked out.

Great. Miles groans and kicks himself out from underneath Peter’s now even heavier weight, and goes to grab a water bottle. He thinks about trying to get Peter to drink it, standing over his sprawled body, but drains it himself instead. The small of his back is soaked with sweat. He’s still hard. His body was pins and needles with anticipation as Peter had gotten closer and closer down. When he’d kissed Miles’ stomach, near his wound, Miles’ dick had twitched with urgent need and his heart was about to flutter away. Despite everything, he would have let Peter do it, next-day regrets or not. Maybe that’s how selfish Miles is, but at least he’s not a hypocrite.

 _From forever ago,_ Peter had said. How long is forever ago? It’s gotta include when they were at his apartment.

Peter starts snoring. It’s loud and unsightly, and Miles knows from sharing a sleeping space with him before, during several stakeouts, that it’s going to continue until morning—especially if he’s this drunk. He’ll deal with him in the morning. He puts his headphones on, blasts some music, hopes that Ganke isn’t arriving tomorrow morning.

*

Miles doesn’t have much of a fitful rest, even with the snoring; he’s plagued with weirdly specific dreams, like being late to his math test on Wednesday, like going on a vigilante run without his mask. His eyes blink open when light filters through his window, music still playing in his ears, headphones warm against his head. A small blip every few seconds lets him know they need to be charged.

Miles lays there, ignoring it, staring at the ceiling for a moment as he tries to process his dreams. Then, last night hits him like a sucker punch: Peter, who said all those crazy things, is still here. Maybe. Miles rips his headphones off and peeks over the edge.

He’s relieved to see him, despite himself. Peter’s still pretty much in the same position: on his stomach, cheek pressed into the wooden floor, arms and legs stretched wherever there’s room between the furniture and wall. It’s a tight space. He’s still snoring.

Ganke might be returning today, and Miles doesn’t want to make introductions—not yet, anyway. At this rate, it’s hard to determine how much Peter’s going to be in his life anyway.

“Peter,” he says, then repeats, louder, “Peter!”

Peter mumbles something unintelligible into the carpet. Miles sits up and throws his legs over the side of the top bunk. He considers just jumping off and landing on Peter’s back, but doesn’t hate him enough to herniate his spine.

Instead, he drops down lightly next to Peter, then pushes at his ribs with his foot.

“Get up, dude, you’re on school property. You’re gonna get a felony.”

“Ugh,” Peter says.

Miles gives into the temptation and puts a foot on Peter’s head, heel grinding into Peter’s cheek.

“Stop!” Peter whines.

“Get up,” Miles says. Peter grabs at his ankle and holds it tight, away from his face. He holds it like he’s unsure what to do with it. Miles kicks his leg free and drops to his knees, pushing Peter’s side until Peter starts sitting up.

“You better not throw up,” Miles is saying, as Peter looks around helplessly and slaps his hand over his mouth. Miles grabs their plastic trash can just in time and Peter leans over and hurls into it, coating old homework, failed designs, a mid-semester grade report.

“Fuck this,” Miles groans in true agony, holding his nose with his other hand.

Peter coughs dry, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “Sorry.”

“What am I even supposed to do with this?” Miles asks mournfully, body angled away from him as to avoid any puke.

“Burn it,” Peter says.

Miles stands up, looking down at him. “I will once you leave. Why did you even come?”

“I…” Peter’s gaze drifts onto the ground, “uh…”

“Well?”

“I don’t… don’t you know?” Peter bites his lip, then squeezes his eyes shut as he says, “I don’t remember, okay?”

Miles purses his lips into a thin line. “You don’t remember anything?”

Peter continues to stare at the floor.

“ _Well?_ ”

“I remember kissing you,” Peter says quietly.

Miles holds his breath but his next words still escape him.

“Do you regret it?” He asks, after another pregnant pause.

Slowly, Peter’s head shakes no.

“Oh,” Miles lets out, one big sigh of relief he couldn’t keep in.

“I’m tired of trying to be someone,” Peter says. It’s not exactly the reason Miles hoped for, but he just listens as Peter adds, “I’m trying to live my old life all over again. But—I mean, I’m dying anyway, right?”

Miles drops to his knees again, facing Peter. “You’re not dying.”

Peter closes his eyes again. “Before I got really drunk, I had a really long, painful glitch. Like nothing I’ve ever felt before. It’s… it’s getting worse, buddy.”

“So go back,” Miles says, before he can help it.

Peter nods. “Yeah. I am. I’m sure everyone’s gonna say I may as well live sad and lonely sans glitches and fucking up other dimensions — I really thought I could change through this. But…” his face scrunches up.

“But what?” Miles insists.

“I want you to come back home with me,” Peter whispers, “just once. Only if you want to.”

He hasn’t met Miles’ eyes once during this conversation, not after the first time.

“I won’t get drunk. Or high.”

Miles swallows. “Really?”

Peter looks up, his eyes dark-rimmed and red. “Really.”

“Okay,” Miles says, “lemme just get the puke out of here, Ganke would die—”

“Just meet me there,” Peter says, “later. Like I dunno, when it’s night your time. I have no idea how old I’ll be when you come visit, but—you’ll come, right?”

“You’re not fucking around with me,” Miles says, “right? I’m not gonna get there and you’re gonna be all, ‘shouldn’t have come here!’ Right?”

“No,” Peter says. “Miles. You’re the best thing in my life right now.”

“I guess if everything else sucks,” Miles says under his breath.

“You’ve always been the best thing. You make me glad I’m alive.”

“Lot of pressure, now,” Miles jokes nervously.

“And…” Peter swallows, “I would just—I can't stop thinking about what it would be like—you felt amazing…”

Miles blushes with embarrassment at the memory of Peter gripping him as he fumbled around Peter’s cock. He’d called on that memory several times, but it always went much smoother in his head.

 “I love you,” Peter says, “and I know I’ve apologized enough, and you’ve been really mean to me.”

“Sorry,” Miles says, “I just…”

“I know. I deserved most of it,” Peter says. He gets onto his knees, clambering up to his feet. “Jesus, my head. You know where the portal is. I’ll meet you on the other side.”

“Okay,” Miles says.

Peter gives him a small smile as he leaves out the window. “Okay.”

Miles realizes after that he should have made Peter clean up his own puke.

*

Peter’s apartment is darker this time around, but better lit, the warm light doing well to turn the closed curtains into a purposefully private atmosphere. Not that this isn’t purposefully private. Miles knows why he’s here. It’s likely nobody will interrupt. It feels like there should be candles.

Peter, in front of him, clad in sweatpants and a faded band shirt, has TV and wings on the couch, which must be a recent addition. Maybe that’s a good thing, even if it looks a little battered. Miles hops on it next to him. They eat.

Once the food is gone, there’s nothing to occupy their hands. Peter’s had two beers to the insistence that his tolerance was much too high. He holds himself together well enough—Miles has yet to ask him about which deadly combination resulted in him breaking into a private school dorm.

“Video games?” Peter suggests.

“Okay,” Miles says.

But Peter’s console won’t turn on, and when it finally does, everything is corrupted. Peter is half-perplexed, half-wracked with grief over it.

“My save files,” he moans in despair.

Miles shakes his head sympathetically. “I hope cloud saves are a thing in your universe.”

“I don’t pay for that feature,” Peter says. He sits back on his heels, glum.

“USB?”

“I’m… lazy.”

“Well…” Miles fidgets in his seat. “I guess… then maybe come sit here next to me.”

Peter stares at the couch, then Miles’ lap, eyes sliding up to his face. “Is that what you want?”

Miles hesitates, but nods. “Yeah.”

“Huh,” Peter says, voice distant as he gets up and shifts over to Miles’ right side. He sits down next to Miles. “What else do you want?”

“What else?” Miles frowns.  

Peter looks down. “I just mean… I don’t want to do anything you don’t want me to do.”

“I don’t want you to change your mind halfway through,” Miles says.

Peter shakes his head. “It’s all just guilt. I’m—this is going to fuck you up even more than it already has—it was never about me.”

“It’d be easier if it was,” Miles says, “you won’t fuck me up.”

Peter smiles tightly. “I wish you were right.”

“I thought I just said not to do this,” Miles says, familiar anger and desperation kicking their way back up, “you told me to come here, and it’s a really shitty thing to...”

His words trail off because Peter’s got a hand on his knee, and is leaning closer. Slowly, gently, he kisses Miles’ lower lip, then tilts his head to kiss him fully. Miles whines low in the back of his throat, taking in what it’s like to be kissed instead of trying so hard to kiss.

There’s no desperation to it, just slow, meaningful movement that makes Miles dizzy again. If he were upside down, he’d surely have let go in his overwhelm. Peter’s hand is on the back of his neck. His stubble scrapes Miles’ chin, but the slight pain feels good.

Peter pulls back an inch, searching for his eyes. “How’s this?”

Miles nods, lost for words. Peter grins and kisses the corner of his mouth, then his neck, his own breathing having grown deeper in the process. It’s finally happening. That moment Miles has literally been dreaming about: Peter drawing his shirt up, kissing down his stomach like he was doing last night. Again, like last night, he pauses at Miles’ stitches.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Miles adds, just in case.

“I know,” Peter says, “I just wish there was more I could do.”

“The fact that we’re doing this at all is weird enough, right? Like, what happens if you come inside someone of a different dimension? What happened with Mary-Jane?”

“What?” Peter chuckles. “She exploded into a million pixels.”

“I guess you’ve done this enough times before,” Miles says, unable to hide the sulk from his voice.

Peter snorts. “When I was your age, I had like no action at all. You’ve got it all, Miles. You’re nice, smart, creative—checks all the boxes. Not to mention cute. And brave.”

“Thanks,” Miles says, a little bashful. When he looks up, Peter’s face is serious.

“You’re gonna grow up to be really cool,” Peter says.

“What do you know about cool?” Miles asks. He’s tired of the chitchat. He draws his sweatpants down further to show Peter how excited he is about this, how here for it he is.

“Damn,” Peter whispers. The couch groans as he shifts Miles so his head is against the armrest. Peter is huge over him, a shadow with big palms that envelope his waist. Peter pauses, and then Miles feels wet hot heat around his dick. He squirms hard against Peter’s head and shoulders. Peter moans. Miles squirms more. All of him, so much of him is in Peter’s mouth and Peter’s tongue, wide and practiced, laves over his balls. It’s such a welcome feeling that Miles feels close to tears. He doesn’t want to cry again, especially not now. Not when he feels so good.

It’s too good; Miles comes quickly, _again_ , and he’s embarrassed about it, again. He tries to push at Peter’s head to let him know, only able to let out words at a time. Peter takes one of his hands and holds it in his own, the other around Miles’ dick. Miles comes into his mouth, kicking at the cushions, squeezing Peter’s hand. Peter lets him go after, resting his head on Miles’ thigh.

“My bad,” Miles mumbles.

Peter laughs. “What?” Miles looks down and away, playing with a loose thread. “Finished already? What about me?”

Miles gets really hot behind his ears. He’s been equal parts hoping for and dreading this moment. Peter’s big. Peter sits up and starts pulling down his sweats. He uses the hem of his shirt to clean Miles up, moving around his dick in a way that wakes Miles up again, the clear eye in the storm of his hazy lust drifting past. Peter leans down to kiss him again and Miles can taste himself on Peter’s mouth. He doesn’t mind it, but it is weird. Peter shifts for a moment and takes Miles’ hand again, the one in the sheets, then brings it back and over his cock. It’s warm, hot, even, the head sticky and wet as Miles slides his palm up lengthwise. Peter groans and his forehead drops to Miles’ shoulder as Miles brings his other hand to help out. He knows his nerves are making him go too slow, or maybe too fast, because Peter helps him out, guiding both his hands with his bigger hand to get a good pace going.

“Uh,” Peter breathes after a moment, “would you… can you…”

Miles’ hands slow down considerably, his anxiety intensifying. He wouldn’t say he doesn’t want Peter inside him, but it looks like it would really hurt.

“Sure,” Miles says hesitantly.

“Fuck,” Peter mutters, and sits back, kicking his sweats off all the way. He gets back onto his knees but, contrary to what Miles expected, shimmies up so he’s kneeling over Miles’ chest, hands on the couch armrest.

Miles takes him in both hands again. If anyone ever tells him to suck a dick in the future, there’s a 99% chance he’s going to remember this moment. Maybe that’s what Peter meant about being fucked up over this. It’s something Miles can live with, if so. He leans close and licks the tip. Peter rewards him with another moan. Miles, encouraged, tries to fit Peter in his mouth, with mixed results.

“Ah,” Peter hisses. Miles pulls back, embarrassed anew. Peter strokes the back of his head, his cheekbone. “It’s okay, Miles. Lemme help you out.”

He gives Miles a couple tips, shows him where to put his hands while his mouth works—without teeth—and tells him that it’s all okay, that they can stop anytime. Miles doesn’t want to stop. He wants to show him what it’s like to feel good; he wants to do a good enough job so that Peter won’t forget this, either. He’s got one hand that flits between Peter’s cock and his stomach because Miles loves the way it feels as Peter clenches and unclenches his muscles. His other hand, emboldened by the praise, drifts up the back of Peter’s thigh. He slips a couple fingers in Peter’s crack, dragging the pad of his middle finger until he meets what’s unmistakeable.

“Fuck,” Peter says as Miles touches him, presses gently into his asshole, “Wow. Didn’t expect that from you.”

“Didn’t expect what?” Miles looks up at his red face; it’s such a fucking trip to see Peter this flushed from the dick up because of him—and only him, poison- and liquor-free.

“To be so…” Peter’s hand cups Miles’ face, thumb rubbing his cheek, “cheeky.”

Miles gets it: he works his mouth and finger, trying to get into some semblance of a groove. Peter starts to tremble, hand that was on Miles’ face now gripping his shoulder. Peter’s other hand joins in. It’s not long before Peter pulls him away; Miles doesn’t get to experience what it’s like to swallow, but he does get to know what it’s like to get it all over his face.

Peter looks panicked for a moment, before his expression turns sly. He takes Miles’ face in his hands and brings him up and across his body to kiss him again. All over. Miles is hard again. He grinds against Peter.

“You can ask me for anything,” Peter says into his ear.

Miles thinks of last time they fought. “I wanna… uh…” shit. The words are stuck.

“You wanna what?”

Miles can’t verbalize it; instead, he reaches down under Peter’s hips, hands at his ass again. He slides down so he’s sitting between Peter’s legs. He shifts Peter up higher against his hips.

“Oh,” Peter draws out. “I see.”

“I wanna fuck you,” Miles says, finally.

“Yes, I see.” One glance up confirms Peter’s own hazy, flushed state. If he has any objections to getting fucked, he sure doesn’t seem interested in voicing them. “I have lube. In the drawer right there. Don’t judge me.”

As Miles disentangles himself to go up and get it, Peter says, “are you afraid?”

“Afraid of what?” Miles slides open his drawer and takes out a tube.

Peter shrugs. “I dunno.”

Miles pads the short few steps back to the couch and asks, “can we go on the mattress?”

Peter nods and gets up hurriedly, smoothing the sheets for Miles. He wonders if they’re the same ones as when Miles was here last. He won’t think about it. Peter sits there, naked from the waist down, and Miles realizes he’s barely taken in any of it. He kneels in between Peter’s legs, rolling Peter’s shirt up and off. He pushes lightly and Peter goes, back hitting the mattress. Miles leans over him and kisses his neck, his collarbone; spots he’s been dreaming of. His chest, the hair foreign against Miles’ lips. His belly. Peter’s making soft noises above him; he’s much noisier than Miles imagined. It’s not that he doesn’t like it—he’s bursting again. They kiss again. Miles’ chin and jaw burn from stubble.

“I love you,” Peter tells him. It sounds so different when he says it now versus all the other times. Miles thinks he likes it more now; it’s needier, a little desperate.

Miles spreads lube over him, fingering it in as Peter squirms. “I love you, too.”

It’s easy to say it. Even though Miles has been hating him for some weeks, being with Peter right now just leaves him wanting to be nice, to please him. All Miles ever wanted was for the both of them to feel good.

Miles puts aside the tube and holds his slick dick up against Peter's asshole. He pushes in and sees stars, it feels that good.

“Ah,” Peter hisses. “I guess we’re going straight for it.”

Miles can’t answer him. Peter’s tight and hot and also just still really big around him. He reaches down to work Peter’s dick with both hands. Peter’s clutching the pillow close, turning his face into it. Miles moves it away because he wants to see him fully. Peter has more scars than Miles had ever realized, all across his body. Miles runs his hands down them and thinks about wearing them himself. He’s already got a few in the time he and Peter have been working together. Fucking Peter is amazing in all respects except for where all the ab-work pulls at Miles’ stitches. He pauses, trying to catch his breath.

It’s Peter’s turn to put a hand on Miles’ chest. He does so, pushing Miles back down to the mattress. Miles slips out, and before he can whine about the unwelcome cold, Peter kneels over his body and takes Miles’ dick. He’s heavy when he sits down on Miles hips, but not as heavy as Miles expected.

It’s all rhythm after that, Peter practiced but just as eager as Miles to learn what works and what doesn’t. Miles wishes they hadn’t waited for so long. He remembers their last conversation. He’s able to put it to the side until he comes inside Peter, after which he remembers they were supposed to have used condoms.

“Shit,” Miles whispers. Peter’s looking at him—this must be what they mean about fuck-drunk eyes. “What about condoms, man?”

“Shit,” Peter says, “well… I’ve been monogamous since MJ. She made me take a test.”

“Okay,” Miles mumbles, with doubt, “you’re not anymore, I guess?”

Peter climbs off of him, bends down to kiss his cheek. “No. How horrible of a person do you think I am?” He flops down on the mattress next to them, and tosses Miles his shirt.

Miles uses it to wipe off his dick. “I’m sure you’re way ahead of me on that.”

Peter grins. “Reading my mind? Must be a side effect.”

Miles is finally washed with a wave of what he can only describe as really kinda bummed.

“So you’re staying here,” he says.

Peter turns from his side onto his back, arms behind his head. “Well… no.”

“No?” Miles heart beats a little faster.

“Well… on the condition of this one question.”

“Yeah?” Miles holds his breath.

“Be honest with me,” Peter says, turning to look him right in the eye. When Miles looks down, Peter prods, gently, “look at me. Do you think I helped you? Like actually helped you, not like a sidekick, but, you know—“

“You made me figure out who I was,” Miles says, all of it spilling easily from his heart, “I kept—keep your words in my head all the time. Not the stupid ones, but—sometimes the stupid ones are good for a laugh, too.”

Peter chuckles. “You would’ve come to it eventually.”

“You made me realize it was okay to be me,” Miles says, “you and the whole Spiderverse. It changed my world.”

“Would you do it all over again?” Peter asks.

Miles nods. “Yeah.”

“Do you think I’m charming?”

Miles laughs. “I guess.”

“Worked on you, didn’t it?”

Miles lightly punches his shoulder. “Shut up.”

Peter’s smile fades as he visibly struggles to form his next words.

His mouth opens, then closes, and then he swallows and says, “I think I wanna keep doing that. Like, I think I wanna help out other Spider-people. Hell, Gwen already does it.”

“No she doesn’t,” Miles protests, “it’s just for us.”

“I think she’s just younger, but she should stop doing it before it really fucks her up. This is a whole can of quantum physics worms.”

Miles sets his jaw. “You’re gonna go around fucking other Spider-people and MJs?

“No!” Peter says, eyes wide, “Jesus, no.”

“That’s so fucking stupid,” Miles says, this anger he’s been holding onto swelling up again, “so now you’re just fucking leaving?”

“Well… you can stay as long as you like,” Peter offers, “but you know you shouldn’t for the same reasons that Gwen shouldn’t, that I shouldn’t.”

“But if you keep letting people know about the teleporter, they’re gonna keep using it,” Miles says. He swipes his forearm over his eyes to get the tears before they fully form.

Peter shakes his head. “You’re a smart kid. But don’t you think it’s worth it?”

“No,” Miles says.

“You wouldn’t help another universe out in need of you knew it existed?”

Miles stares hard at the patchy ceiling. “Okay. Fine. I would. But you can’t save everyone.”

“I know, Peter says, “and I don’t want to bring you down with me.”

“So why did you let me dick you down?” Miles snaps.

Peter turns red. “I… don’t ask me this, Miles. I’ve been trying not to.”

“Should’ve been stronger,” Miles says.

Peter is stricken with his words. He can’t look at Miles anymore. “You’re right.”

“This was the worst,” Miles says, and hides his head in his arms. Because Peter can’t see him from this angle, he can finally let the tears flow.

Peter lets out a shaky breath. “Well, maybe you’re wrong, then. Maybe I don’t help people.”

“Fuck off,” Miles yells at him from between his knees, “I’m so sick of you turning everything into something about yourself! You’re a selfish dick who’s talking about abandoning his own city!”

“I’m miserable here,” Peter starts.

“You think you’re the only one? Shut the fuck up! Damn!” Miles rolls off the bed and gets up. He doesn’t even want to stay long enough to shower.

He’s searching for his underwear as Peter says, “it would never work out.” Miles grits his teeth and doesn’t answer. He can’t find his briefs. “You could never introduce me to your mom. Definitely not your dad. You would live even less of a normal lifestyle than me.”

“Fuck normal,” Miles whispers hoarsely.

“I loved every moment,” Peter says, “and I know that you deserve more.”

“I’m so sick of having this conversation.” Miles swallows, throat sore. He feels like he’s lost his voice.

Peter reaches over and grabs Miles’ wrists to pull him down and close, into his arms. Miles lets him.

“You said I was the best thing about your life,” Miles mumbles, nestling in despite himself. Peter’s still as big and warm, hairy chest as comforting as it was just minutes ago.

“You are,” Peter replies.

“Do you still want me to stay?” Miles asks.

Peter strokes his hair, the back of his neck. “Yeah. I really do, Miles.”

There’s nothing left to say that they haven’t said to each other before. So they wait, in silent embrace, for the lights behind the curtains to brighten with the morning sun.

 

 

 

 

END

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> peter kinda sux. thanks everyone for reading and commenting, it really means a lot! special thx to my beta *kiss kiss*


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